Aftermath: Ada
by radioraheem
Summary: Raccoon City lay in ruins, but the memory of the tragedy would forever remain in the hearts of the survivors. Each would seek an escape, but fate would once again bring them together. This is the beginning of the end.
1. Ada awakens

Fighting out of the darkness, the dull echo of distant footsteps and the wail of the warning klaxon, blaring through her nightmares. Panting heavily, she awoke to the darkness. 

She expected to feel the ache of a nasty bruise in her side, but as she rolled over, she felt nothing. This wasn't right. She had run and been on the run for nearly two days straight with almost no rest or water; her muscles should've been locked up tighter than bridge cables by now. But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and her mind regained some focus, she realized she had no idea how long ago that had been...or even where she was.

From what little she could see, the room was a featureless cube, eight feet long by eight feet across. The dingy cot she had been sleeping on was damply stained with sweat, worn leather straps hanging loosely about the corners, foreboding and frightening. She was glad she awoke without those on, or she would have thrashed until her body snapped just to be free. She'd always had issues with restraint of any kind, physical as well as figurative.

She swung long legs across the mattress and onto the cool linoleum of the tiled floor. It was colder than she expected, the heat of September still lingering in her mind. Squeezing the stiffness from her fists, she gingerly tugged at the clasp of her shirt, surprised to find a hospital garb instead. So as she suspected, it was some sort of a hospital. Had her agency contact somehow found her and patched her up? No, that wasn't possible. No one she knew had made it out of that holocaust alive. No one. The thought saddened her for no more than a moment, and her mind quickly returned to the situation at hand.

She unfastened the clasp, letting the thin cloth fall to her waist and exposing her body to the open air. She expected to feel horribly deep scarring, torn flesh, maybe even some exposed bone…but she felt nothing disfiguring besides the snaking curve of a thin scar across her torso. So she hadn't emerged untouched after all. A red light came on in the corner, and she realized a camera was watching her, the whir of the lens struggling to focus with such little lighting. She would've thought such a camera to have a night vision setting. Aware of her half nudity, she stared up at the camera defiantly, taking her time to cover herself before speaking aloud. But as she opened her mouth, a loud voice snapped over an intercom.

"You are in a medical facility for your own protection," boomed the voice. It wasn't quite heavy, almost educated with a hint of sophistication to it, like an accent she couldn't quite place. It certainly wasn't your everyday goon watching and speaking to her.

"Where exactly is that," she asked, her voice sounding weakly hollow in the room.

"In a secure location. The exact specifics are immaterial at the moment," answered the voice calmly. As it spoke, dull fluorescent lights flickered to life above her, the new light casting a dim blue glow over the room. The room looked cleaner than it had in her mind's eye, but as she rose, she realized the condition of the mattress was as she expected. Disgusting, she thought, turning away. What kind of hospital lets that sort of thing slide? Get a sheet, for Christ's sake.

The steel door before her slid open to reveal a brightly lit hallway, and she cautiously stepped into it, her eyes slowly adjusting to even more light. The door automatically snapped shut behind her, and she startled at the sudden motion. Looking back, she saw a magic mirror panel at about eye level. Apparently there were more people watching her than through the talking camera.

The hallway was long and metallic, more industrial than anything. A young woman approached her, dressed as a nurse and handsome in a coldly utilitarian way. She smiled, spreading open a soft brown robe to rest on the patient's shoulders.

"Please follow me," she said kindly, leading her down the long hallway. There seemed to be little activity going on in the hospital; all the rooms' magic mirrors revealing empty chambers. It was creepy how soulless the hall felt, the dark mirrors like empty eyes staring at her, judging her. "Right this way, Ms. Wong," she directed, pointing into an open door by her side.

Ada looked at her, stunned, but fought to keep the surprise from her face. How could this nurse have known who she was?

"How…how did you know my name--," fumbled out Ada.

"There is precious little we do not know about you, Ms. Wong," cooed the voice she had heard earlier. Only now it was through that open door, and the feedback from the microphone was gone. This voice was softer, smoother, still calm and always in control.

Looking back, she saw the impossibly long corridor, stretching into darkness, and she realized she had nowhere else to go. And so she entered the room.

--

The man sitting at the table wasn't quite what she had been expecting. Granted, she'd only had a few sentences and moments to piece together a mental image, but this man was hardly older than she. She had pictured a man in his fifties at least, a smoker, maybe even swirling a glass of brandy or another fine alcohol in front of a fireplace. And definitely in a highball glass.

Instead, she saw a young man who appeared to be in his late twenties, pale and lean. He exuded a cool confidence in his every movement, to such a degree that he seemed almost icy. He smiled at her, a heartless and cold smile that chilled her, like the smile an executioner gives under his mask as he throws the kill switch on the murderer of his family. This was the kind of man who made time for revenge, but still considered himself above the pettiness of it all.

But she was no pushover herself, no matter how badly her head ached. She stiffened, straightening her back to stare him fully in the face as she sat at the proffered chair. It was cold, simple, functional, just like everything else in the hospital. She returned his wry smile, crossing her legs as she leaned back into the seat. She took her time doing this, realizing he was waiting for her to speak.

"Surely you must have some questions…" he began, leaning back into his own chair, a bemused expression on his face. The back was far too high for him, even though he was quite tall. That chair is more of a throne than a chair you just sit and work in, she thought to herself. This guy obviously had some issues.

"Well, there's always the ever popular 'where are we', that I asked earlier," she said, her dark eyes never leaving him. For some reason she couldn't place, she just didn't want to trust this guy. When he reached into his desk, she braced herself, half-hoping he would pull out a gun or weapon so she could leap over the table and stomp his sorry ass. Instead, he withdrew a folder, rather thick, and flipped it open. He seemed to be reading some document, but she couldn't tell with the sunglasses he wore whether he was or not.

He brought a long finger to his chin, gently stroking it as if he were pondering over something rather important.

"Impressive," he muttered. He looked up at her, his forehead furrowing in thought. "I had of course looked over your file prior to the Raccoon City...incident, but it's refreshing to see one so committed to the task at hand," he added admiringly.

"I believe my question was about our location, not my qualifications," she shot back, curious to his file and its contents.

"Of course, of course. You must be tired and confused, Ada...may I call you Ada," he asked, sipping a clear liquid from a short glass, not waiting for her to answer. Not a highball glass, though, she thought, disappointed. Judging by the small portion of his sips, she guessed it was most likely vodka or some other clear alcoholic drink. "Oh, how rude of me...Cindy, could you get Ada something to drink?"

The nurse entered the room again, her walk brisk and direct. "What will it be, miss?"

"I'll have what our esteemed host is having," she said, trying to gauge his reaction. But his only movement was a flick of his finger, signaling Cindy the nurse to do as requested. "Then again, he knows my name but I am at a loss for his..." she began, waving her hand absentmindedly.

"You know who I am, Ada Wong. Just as I know you. Our...business interests are close enough that you should know Albert Wesker when face to face."

"I know enough to know that Albert Wesker died months ago in an explosion big enough to liquify a chunk of the Arklay Mountains," she said, reaching for the glass Cindy held for her. He laughed, taking his own drink into both hands. Surprisingly, it was plain water, probably overpriced bottled water, but water all the same. She inhaled deeply from the glass, trying to locate the faint odor of a drug. Then again, she'd been unconscious for hours, maybe even days, and Wesker and his nurse had all kinds of opportunities to inject her with whatever they wanted.

"Nonetheless, I can recount many incidents where Ada Wong was believed dead, can I not? In fact...," he began, setting down his drink. "I can think of an event only a short while ago...in the destruction of Raccoon City."

"What-?"

"You of all people should understand. The government and Umbrella did what they could to clean up the mess. They nuked it and everyone in the city was vaporized and presumed dead. Even you, my dear."

"I remember an advanced Tyrant model..."

"Much like the last thing I remembered before my...awakening."

"Awakening? What are you talking about?"

"We are two of a kind now, Ada. We have faced the trials and tribulations of life, tasted death...and returned. And we are stronger for it."

"Return...from the dead? You're talking nonsense, Wesker."

"Really? Considering what you fought through, am I the nonsensical one here? You saw the dead walk the earth, consume the flesh of the living...and now you refuse to accept the same notion of it happening to you?"

"Look at me, my flesh isn't rotting off, I'm not hungry for brains!"

"No, not at all. But then...am I?"

"You mean you...?"

"Yes, the rumors of my death were not…exaggerated. I did in fact die in that mansion. But the miracle of science restored me. Just like I used it to restore you."

"...But why me?"

"Your reputation precedes you. Even in our underhanded world of shady dealings and espionage, I came to hear of, even to...respect your skill. After all, HCF had the two of us competing for the top of their payroll for a reason, no?" He laughed, a short, tight snort from the back of his throat. "Then again, they were not so kind as to hand over to me this base of operations..."

"We're not at an HCF base?"

"Of course not. This is a facility I...acquired for my personal needs. The only people here are Cindy and I, and a few other of my most trusted aides. You surely can see the need for secrecy here...Ada Wong is far more useful to me dead than alive after all, wouldn't you say?"

"How am I of use to you at all?"

"Oh, I am sure I can think of something," he replied, finishing the last of his drink and setting down the glass, the ice clinking loudly. He rose from his seat, and even though sunglasses obscured his eyes, she was certain that for a moment, his eyes seemed to shine. "But enough chatter; you must be hungry. Cindy, be a dear and show our guest to the dining hall."

--

_Author's note: I plan on taking a few liberties with what is known fact and what isn't in the RE plotline, but I hope to maintain the integrity of each character as best I can. This first chapter was a test of mine, to see how well an Ada/Wesker dynamic would work. Some of the dialogue is a bit extraneous, but what the hell, it was fun writing, and definitely a new experience trying to talk like Wesker. Next chapter will pick up a bit action-wise, and introduce us to some familiar faces. I'm thinking of a few big surprises, but they'll come later on. Hope you enjoy this!_


	2. On the edge of the disaster

The smoke from the burnt out train poured from the tunnel's opening, dissipating into the open sky. The three survivors limped along the tracks away from it all, the morning sun warm and light on their faces. Under any normal circumstances, it would be considered a beautiful morning, but the trio was simply happy to be alive after the night they had endured. The crunch of the gravel beneath footsteps was the only sound until someone finally spoke.

"I'm hungry," whined the little girl. Whether it was fatigue or a faint hope that she would forget, neither of the adults responded. "Claire, I'm hungry," she repeated, tugging on the young woman's hand and put out at having to repeat her complaint.

"I know honey," said Claire, exhausted. "We're almost there. Just hold on, okay Sherry?"

"Almost where? Where are we even going?"

Claire looked to the man walking on the other side of Sherry, who shrugged before finally answering.

"The main highway should be further ahead," Leon answered. "We'll be able to find help there." He looked down at the young girl, who seemed content with his answer, but she still wore a pained face from hunger. Sighing, he reached into his pocket. "Hey," he said, handing her a small package. "I got gum."

The girl took it gratefully, munching happily on his chewing gum. It seemed to give her a boost, walking faster instead of slowing them down like she had been. She was quiet and content, but Leon secretly hoped the gum would tire out her mouth completely. It'd been a long while since he had to deal with a young girl accustomed to always getting her way, and he dearly hoped that there wouldn't be a next time.

Claire smiled brightly at his kind gesture, but Leon didn't seem to notice. He seemed satisfied with his own thoughts, thoughts she would never be bold enough to ask about. Sure she had faced legions of undead, impossible odds and come out alive, but when it came to men, she was all thumbs. Well, certain type of men, that is. The bad boys had always flocked to her (much to her brother's dismay), but her confidence and independence often put off the straight edge good guys. She hoped that wouldn't be the case with Leon.

Still, she couldn't remember the last time a guy about her age didn't pay much attention to her, and with the life or death situations they faced, it was almost expected that they form some kind of emotional bond. Unless he was…no, she thought, that couldn't be. But he did have a really fashionable haircut, after all…

She was lost in the question so many other women would ask themselves when the group of masked men emerged from the bushes before them, assault rifles trained on the three survivors.

"Whoa, hold up, we're humans!" yelled Leon, stepping in front of the girls, his empty hands raised. Claire grabbed Sherry, pulling her into her arms and away from the menacing gunmen.

"And most likely infected," replied one of the masked men, stepping forward, his gun still raised.

"Shit, Mason, one of them's a fucking kid," said one of the men, his rifle wavering ever so slightly. "Maybe we shouldn't—"

"Our orders are to eliminate any living thing that makes it to the city limits," the leader interrupted, releasing his gun's safety. "Child or not."

"Put us into quarantine then," said Claire, stepping out from Leon's shadow. "We don't want anymore trouble."

"Well, lookee here," sneered one of the men. "She's volunteering to be put into lockup. I see this shit in those late night cable movies, but never thought it'd happen in real life. Do we draw straws for who does the strip search or what?" The other men laughed, the hollow echo from their gas masks sinister and soulless.

"This isn't Skinemax, Cooper," said the leader, stern. He looked at his men, their rifles hesitant and hanging loosely in their hands. "Fine, I'll do it myself," he added, taking careful aim.

Leon turned to look at Claire, and she thought she saw something there; a sad longing, perhaps of a love that could've been, or maybe he just didn't want the last thing he ever saw to be a firing squad. To further befuddle her, he blinked once, then closed his eyes tightly. Baffled, she did the same, feeling his strong arms suddenly grasp her tightly.

The bright flash of the explosion flared across the entire countryside, a soundless eruption of blinding light and heat coming in a single flooding shock wave that ripped the leaves from the trees. Then came the rumble of the missile's impact, shaking the ground beneath them and heralding the official end of Raccoon City. The gunmen recoiled, confused and stunned senseless by the sudden explosion. Claire felt Leon's arms slip from around her, and realized he had seen the missiles overhead and had meant only to brace her against the impact.

The next sounds she heard came from the barrel of Leon's custom handgun, the loud punch of his gun firing rapidly. Claire opened her eyes and shook the cotton from her head, grabbing her crossbow and firing as fast as she could into the scattering group. Her arrows flew wildly, piercing arms, legs, and shoulders as the masked men screamed in agony. Reloading, she marveled at Leon's shots each finding their mark, obliterating one man's entire forearm, then another's kneecap, and finally the leader's masked face exploded in a cloud of blood.

In the stillness that came after the effects of the explosion had passed, she still couldn't believe what she saw. The two of them had taken down eight heavily armed men in just a few breaths. Leon calmly slid another clip into his handgun, but she understood the torn look on his face. Slaughtering undead was one thing, but killing human beings was a line not many were pleased to cross.

--

Walking again, the silence between them was even thicker than before. Claire realized she had to say something; Leon needed to hear that what he just did was a good thing. She had seen the same agonized look on her brother's face after his first shooting.

"You did what you had to, Leon," she assured him. "It was us or them."

"Yeah, thanks Leon," added Sherry. "Those men were bad."

"What do you know!" Leon suddenly yelled, his abrupt anger taking them aback. "What does a kid know about the feeling after you kill someone?" Claire stepped between them, her own eyes flaring.

"Do _not_ take it out on her. Don't you dare, Leon," Claire said. "That kid has been through everything we have and more," she said coldly, her face inches from his. His eyes softened, and he turned away, continuing the march towards the highway wordlessly. He kept his magnum in hand, ready for more trouble. Claire looked to Sherry, preparing to soothe the pain of the girl's wounded ego, but the young girl was already recovered. Apparently she was tougher than Claire had thought.

"It's okay, Claire," said the little girl, grabbing the astonished woman's hand and pulling her forward. They caught up to Leon soon enough, but they were more comfortable walking a few steps behind him, his private introspection better left uninterrupted.

Watching Leon carefully, Claire tried to keep an eye out for trouble as well. The thick underbrush cast thick shadows everywhere, creating an endless number of ambush points, so she kept her weapons close at hand. Ahead, Leon stopped in his tracks. He turned back to them, the faint hint of a smile on his tired face.

"The highway is up ahead."

--

They crouched low as they approached the peak of the hill, staying down to prevent being spotted by anyone below. Laying on his belly, Leon squinted against the bright sun and peeked towards the highway. Claire crawled to his side, her arm tucked around Sherry to keep her down out of sight.

The highway below was bustling with activity. Canopied trucks and large boxes peppered the roadway as more armed men paraded about the barricades. A group of men were heaping bodies into a pile, but Leon couldn't tell if they were humans or undead.

"What do you think," Claire whispered to him.

"I can't tell from this distance what those are," Leon replied.

"I can't tell either," sighed Claire.

"We'll have to assume worse case scenario, that they're killing anyone who comes close," he said.

"No, those are zombies in that pile," Sherry said suddenly.

"You can see that far," Leon asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, I always had the best vision in all my classes," Sherry answered, beaming with pride. "Those masked men are different too," she added. It was Claire's turn to be doubtful.

"How can you be so sure, honey," she asked, somewhat skeptical but trying to hide it.

"See, the men down there are military and police, and the guys who surprised us worked at my daddy's work," Sherry pointed. "Their patches and clothes are different. See, those guys down there are dressed like GI Joes, not like COBRAs like those other men from before."

"Well, good thing for us she doesn't like Barbie," said a now convinced Leon. "We'll take our chances with the US government over Umbrella's lackeys," he added, rising to his feet and sliding down the hill.

--

"You're survivors," repeated the officer, looking over the exhausted trio. "Of the Raccoon City disaster?"

"How many times do you need to ask us that," Claire blurted out. "The answer is still the same." The heavy officer's face burned crimson, and he looked like he was about to burst.

"Look, officer, we've just been through the ringer and back," eased Leon. "Can't the questions wait?" The cop opened his mouth to answer, but he caught the eye of the young girl, huddled miserably under a wool blanket, and he simply nodded.

"I'll get you people some coffee," he said reluctantly. "And hot cocoa for the young missus," he asked, kneeling to look her in the eye. But Sherry looked away, only nodding.

"That'd be great…thanks," Claire said, putting her arm around the girl. She had been forced to break the news to Sherry that both her parents were dead, but she had left out Leon's involvement in the matter. Young as she was, she took it amazingly well, shedding few tears and preferring to be left alone. Claire desperately wished she had theoption to wait, but the girl kept asking about her parents, and one of the clueless cops was bound to tell her everyone else was dead.

Watching the cop walk away, Claire absentmindedly muttered to Leon: "I never did get along with cops." She realized who she was talking to, and immediately wished she hadn't said it. He turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised, but surprised her when he burst out laughing.

"Mr. Kennedy," interrupted a tall, well-dressed man who seemed to appear from nowhere. "Might we have a word with you?" Leon stared at the men, annoyed at their arrival, when they flashed an ID badge at him. Claire couldn't quite see it, but judging from the way Leon immediately obeyed, she figured they were important men. As they led him away, he turned to look back once more at the girls. And then he was gone.

--

"Very impressive, Mr. Kennedy, surviving such an…incident with so little training," the man with the dark sunglasses said. It struck Leon as odd, as they sat in a military tent with almost no light present save a lantern hanging overhead. The partner stood quietly behind him by the entrance.

"What's this all about," Leon asked, his eyes fixed on the man's sunglasses. "You want to shut me up or something?"

"On the contrary…we could use someone like you," replied the man. "You could of great use to your country."

"My country? What does this have to do with Umbrella? You are aware that this was all their fault, right?"

The one behind him spoke now, stepping forward and removing his sunglasses to reveal hard eyes.

"We are aware of that, and the US government is taking the appropriate steps to ensure Umbrella is held responsible," he said, sitting in the chair beside him. "We are also aware that you…dispatched an entire squadron of Umbrella's Countermeasure team. Most impressive."

"I had help."

"And the X-01 Tyrant you destroyed?"

"Ehh…I had help there too," he said, blushing at the memory. "Look, it was really a lot of luck and circumstance that helped us get out of there in one piece."

"Don't discredit your accomplishment, Mr. Kennedy. You've survived one of the greatest disasters in US history with a modest amount of training. Imagine what you could accomplish with the _right _kind of training…"

"Hey, I received training from—"

"Marvin Brannagh," interrupted the man sitting across from him, waving his hand in the air. "Pish posh. We are offering you a chance at a field position within our agency. Usually this requires decades of experience and—"

"Not interested," Leon replied, rising from his seat. "I learned a long time ago not to trust men who wear sunglasses in dark places, or don't introduce themselves."

The man beside him grabbed him roughly, pulling him back down with a tremendous strength Leon couldn't resist. The man across from him took off his sunglasses, and his narrow, mole-like eyes almost made Leon laugh aloud. Such a heavy set face, and with such sunken eyes, he really did resemble an animal. No wonder he wore those things all the time.

"It is in the interest of security that we do not reveal our names to parties we are…courting. But if you must address us, you can call me Agent…Blue, and the man restraining you Agent Red. Believe me, participation is suggested, especially when considering--"

"You can't hold me here against my will…if you want to do this, then arrest me," he cried, struggling to break free. He regretted handing over his weapons to the on-scene officers, as he was still too worn out to put up a decent battle.

"You're right, we cannot hold you without charging you. But there is the matter of those two civilians out there…our intelligence tells us that the lovely young woman also participated in those…murders."

"It was self defense! I'll testify on her behalf as well!"

"And there's always the matter of the young girl," he said, opening a folder and reading its contents aloud. "Sherry Birkin…age 12…daughter of William and Annette…exposed to the G-Virus and survived. It can be so harsh, the life of a lab rat…"

"You son of a bitch."

"Such harsh words, Mr. Kennedy! It really is a tragedy; her teen years spent being poked and prodded, her cadaver kept for scientific research, and your lady friend…she is quite protective of her as well. She might be injured in the struggle when we take young Birkin away, maybe even killed. Is that really what you want? Is protecting and serving the people in this country under our command any different than working under the RPD?"

Leon realized it then; they had him. No matter what he did, they had him. Even if he were armed, killing these men would change nothing. He would be carted off to prison with Claire, lost within the system, and Sherry would be taken to some research facility where she would live out the rest of her days as a lab specimen. He had no choice but to cooperate.

"What do I do," he finally asked, resigned.

"First off, you must sever your ties with that woman…" he began, outlining his requests.

--

"Claire, what do those men want with Leon," asked Sherry, her hands wrapped gratefully around the warm cup of cocoa.

"I don't know, honey," she replied, her alert eyes never leaving the small tent where they took him.

"I don't trust them," Sherry added, blowing gently at the hot drink.

"Me either," Claire said. "But Leon can take care of himself."

"Then why are you so worried?"

Claire was taken aback by the young girl's question, hot blood rushing to her face.

"I'm not worried. Leon is…" she began, searching for the words. Luckily for her, Leon emerged from the tent, his face emotionless and unreadable. He looked around, then moved straight towards the girls, the two agents close behind him. Claire smiled at his approach, but he couldn't seem to look her in the eye.

"This is…where we part ways," he said, finally looking at her. "It's best if you leave now, Claire."

"Wha--why? What is this, Leon," she asked, bewildered at his abrupt change.

"The US government wants to question us separately, and you have…other things you need to take care of," Leon said, and Claire wondered if he was hiding something, as he seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

"The Birkin girl is coming with us," one of the men said, reaching for Sherry.

"No fucking way," Claire said, slapping his hands aside, surprised by her own words. She glanced at Sherry apologetically, but the young girl was too terrified to notice as the man reached into his coat pocket. Leon put a hand up to stop him.

"It's for her own good, Claire," Leon said. "And, I'll…keep an eye on her. It's not necessary that you come with us," he urged, his words hinting at something else. Claire looked at him, puzzled. What was he trying to tell her? "Just go!" he finally yelled, shoving her back. "Go, get out of here!"

The wounded look on Claire's face must have stopped him short, because he turned away, refusing to look at her. He took Sherry's reluctant hand, and began to lead her towards the gloomy agents. Claire opened her mouth to object, but could think of nothing to say; there weren't enough words to say what she felt in that moment. Wiping away a tear, she turned towards the woods and began to walk away. She seemed to think of something, and stopped, talking over her shoulder to her young friend.

"Be a good girl, Sherry," she said, steeling herself against the pain in her heart. "I'll be back to take care of you," she promised.

"Claire!" Sherry yelled, her small hand outstretched towards the one person she trusted most in the world. "Claire!" Leon patted her head gently, and she pulled away from his touch, offended. "We thought you were a good guy Leon," she cried, tears running down her face.

Her words tore at his heart. "It's for the best," he repeated, wondering if even he believed his own words.

Claire stood hesitantly at the edge of the dark woods, casting one last longing glance at her friends. Sherry was sobbing now, her hands still desperately reaching outwards, and Claire could only watch before turning away and disappearing into the underbrush.

--


	3. Moving forward

Later, in the car, she still refused to talk to him, much less look at Leon. Her gaze remained on the passing trees, hurdling past as the dark sedan sped away from the city. Trees reflecting on the tinted windows, she stared intently into the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of Claire.

Leon fumed. He asked himself for the hundredth time if what he had done was the right thing. He told himself it was the only way to ensure Sherry's safety, and now Claire could search unhindered for her brother. It was for the best that the feds didn't know who she was, or they'd insist on putting her into protective custody as well. Claire wasn't a bird meant to be caged; of that much he was certain. She would be on her own for now; he'd have to trust she could look after herself. But the destroyed look on her once smiling face hurt more than he ever thought it could, the image burning into his heart.

One of the g-men turned around to look at him. "The medical facility is just up ahead," he grunted.

"Medical facility? The medics checked us out already," said Leon. "We're fine."

"This is simply a formality," the other said, his eyes never leaving the imposing building on the horizon. "Nothing to worry about at all."

--

The facility was smaller than she had expected; apparently the bulk of the space was used for the holding area she had first seen. The ceilings were all low, the hallways narrow, and the remaining rooms very space efficient. It reminded her of the first time she had been in a submarine, cramped quarters and an ever-present sense of claustrophobia. Everything in its right place.

The mess hall was wide, enough to seat about twenty or thirty men, but was now completely empty. A large network of vents and pipes ran overhead, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this facility was a work in progress. The tables were those long fold outs types usually found at church or school socials, and the mental image of Wesker stealthily sneaking into a closet and stealing them didn't seem out of place to her at all.

The nurse seated her at one such table in the middle of the room, and also laid a small leather pouch before her.

"I hope you don't expect me to eat that," Ada joked, recognizing the nurse's kit.

"No, it is simply best to give you your shot on an empty stomach," replied Cindy, unzipping the kit to reveal a syringe filled with abrownish fluid.

"So I can't eat?"

"For a few minutes," answered the nurse. "It will also suppress your appetite, so you won't eat as much."

"Another way to maintain my girlish figure, eh?"

Cindy stared at her blankly, swabbing the needle's tip before plunging it sharply into her shoulder. Ada grimaced at the slight prod, then held the cotton swab in place as the porcelain-faced nurse readied a bandage.

"What is that stuff anyways?"

"It's a strain of antibodies created to keep the virus in check."

"Virus? What virus?"

"The virus keeping you alive, of course," Cindy replied.

"Keeping me alive?"

"Yes. Without it, you will die."

--

"I don't like needles," she said, shaking her head and fighting back tears.

"Look, it's just a quick prick, right guys," Leon asked, hoping the men would support him. "Over and out, right?"

"No, we need a full sample," the emotionless agent ordered, his arms crossed.

"This is ridiculous; you didn't say anything about this!" Leon felt the anger building again, the urge to smash this agent's heavy face with something heavier.

"Imagine the alternative: one needle, or a thousand. Your call, Mr. Kennedy."

"Look, Sherry, let's just get this over with, ok?" Leon asked, trying to soothe her with his best Claire imitation. The girl's eyes smoldered, and he thought for a moment she was going to spit in his face. He backed away, realizing he was only making things worse. He saw a young nurse, milling about outside, pretty and fresh faced. "Excuse me a moment," he said, exiting the room to run after her.

--

"Hey!"

"Yes, what is it?"

"What is up with this," she said, her voice edgy. "Your Nurse Ratchet told me I have a virus in me keeping me alive?"

"Hmm, she shouldn't have told you that so soon," said Wesker, looking past her down the hallway. "Not when you're so emotional."

"Emotional? I'm told I'm being kept alive by a freaking cold and I'm being 'emotional'?"

"It is far more advanced than a simple cold," replied Wesker. "It took my…colleague nearly a decade to incubate a usable sample suitable for field use."

"I don't care! Who gave you the right to do that to me?" He raised an eyebrow to her question.

"Why…_you_ did," he answered calmly. "You were on the verge of death when I found you, and I gave you the choice. You needed to save that silly boyfriend of yours, and I had the means. How else do you think you made it all that way to aid him?"

"I-I don't remember…" she fumbled, her mind a flood of jumbled memories.

"Another side effect of the serum, I'm afraid," he said, turning to walk away. "It will come back to you eventually."

"So…I need a shot to stay alive…?"

"Yes," he replied, walking back towards her. "And I probably don't have to remind you, that with my former colleague now deceased courtesy of that…_boy_ you saved, I am the _sole_ source of the serum."

"Wh-what are you saying?"

"I am saying," Wesker said, placing his hand on her bare shoulder. "That you now belong to me, Ada Wong."

--

She smiled her friendliest smile, thinking of what he had just told her, trying to relate to the little girl scowling suspiciously at her.

"Come on, honey, it's really not that bad," she began. "It hurts just a little bit at first, but it's never as bad as you think it will be."

"What do you know," Sherry blurted out, her chin buried in her chest and her eyes darting about the room.

"I do this dozens—no, hundreds of times a day," answered the young nurse. "I know."

The girl tilted her head, as if examining the woman before her, and her wall began to break. "Just once?"

"Just once," eased the nurse, waiting for the girl to finally relent before preparing the needle.

"Ok, fine…just make it quick, ok?"

"Of course, honey," said the nurse calmly, the needle poised. "Say, that's a really nice vest you have there…"

"My friend Claire gave it to me," Sherry said, casting yet another bitter glance at Leon. "She's the bravest, nicest person I've ever met."

So lost was she in her thoughts of Claire that Sherry didn't notice the small vial fill with her blood. The agents shared a knowing look at one another, then took the vial and exited the room wordlessly. Leon watched them go, detached from it all, anxious to get away from Sherry's evil eye.

"Wow, I hope I can meet her someday. I bet you'll grow up to be just like her…such a brave little girl," said the nurse sweetly, patting Sherry's head and fixing a stray hair. The woman rose from her stool, winking at Leon before leaving the room. "Let me know if you need anything else."

--

"There's nothing else?"

"No, he is being truthful. He really is the only one in the world with a ready supply of the serum," the nurse replied, her eyes growing misty.

"Wait…you too?" The nurse bit her lip, showing her first signs of emotion.

"Yes, me too. All of us here, actually," she whispered. "Wesker _owns _us."

"That's not right, not at all," Ada said, her mind racing.

"You don't know, you've never seen what happens to those that don't get the serum!"

"Well, tell me then…what happens?"

"Their bodies…wracked with unspeakable pain…muscles that thrash so violently, it snaps their bones…vomiting up their internal organs…and the screaming. My god, the screaming…"

"That doesn't sound so bad…"

"It lasts forever, the pain…the virus keeps them alive until Wesker tires of their agony, sending in someone to finally execute them! If he wanted, you would suffer _forever_," she cried, her body shaking at the memory.

"It happened to someone close to you, didn't it?"

"The man I loved," she replied, wiping away quiet tears. "Wesker made me…he made me _watch_. And when he finally let me leave the room, he put the screams over the intercom so I had to listen…"

"Wow, that's some sick stuff. I'd heard rumors about his cruelty, but…"

"No, you have no idea! That man is…he's completely—," she began, her last words cut off by the sound of her beeper. "Oh my god, he knows what I've been saying!"

"Don't worry, it's probably just him pissed off because you told me about the serum 'too soon'; he probably wanted to break the news to me himself," Ada said, trying to calm the near hysterical woman.

"Oh god, you told him that? It's over for me! One mistake, and you're…you're gone."

"I'm sure it's not that serious," Ada assured her. "You're too valuable for him to just lose over something so small."

"Yes, yes…you're probably right," said Cindy, wiping away the last tears. "I'll be fine," she said aloud, as if she were trying to convince herself. She stood and walked to the door, casting one last glance at Ada, smiling bravely at the one person she had opened up to since her arrival at the remote station two years ago.

Ada never saw her again.

--

_Writer's note: Rather than do work today for month end, I decided to sit at my desk and write this chapter out. I did a cursory glance over the text, so if there are typos and what not, please excuse them. I did try something different with the narrative; it's funny because it wasn't intentional at first. Only later did Irealize I was inadvertently tying together the character's experiences, so I figured making it more consistent would keep the character parallels a bit tighter. Anyways, hope it still makes sense; I know it's forced in a couple places, but what the hey, it's something new for me. _


	4. The baptism begins

--

The water was silent and still, the small boat rising and falling with the rolling lilt of the waves. The night sky was moonless, but the horizon would flash every so often with small soundless explosions. Or at least, explosions that appeared to be small in the distance. She was glad she wasn't up closer or part of the breach team, but sitting in an uncomfortable and sticky body suit was not exactly something to be thankful for. Even if did look incredibly flattering on her, she thought, grinning. She checked her tools and instruments once again, the crunch of the rubbery dive suit sounding like a shotgun blast in the silent night.

Her surveillance log had recorded only one plane arrival in the past three days, and no departures. So there was at least one functional plane on the island as long as those overzealous army rejects didn't blow it to pieces. She pulled he zipper closed on her emergency pack, a single syringe with her last dose of the sepia-toned serum. Wesker had told her if she needed anymore than that to complete her mission, he had no need for her. Ada learned early on in life that being of use was the only bargaining chip with a hard assed SOB. At least Wesker's boys entered the stage on time; any longer and she'd have had to go in without their diversionary assault.

She leaned against the edge of the boat, sighing to herself. A three mile swim, each way, just for the sake of secrecy. Well, at least she wouldn't have to eat sardines again any time soon, she thought, grabbing the waterproof duffel bag. She fell back into the frigid water and began her long swim towards Rockport Island, intermittent explosions guiding her through the inky darkness.

--

She reached the shore nearly an hour later, her limbs feeling like jelly paste. She crawled atop a flat set of rocks by the beach, laying there for a moment before slowly removing the tight diver's suit. She dumped it into a heap with a trace of regret; while her field uniform was much better suited for the dangers ahead, a girl finds only so many outfits that accentuate her positives so well...but the cold ocean wind bit harshly into her naked body, so she dressed hurriedly into her other outfit.

Running her hands along the seams of her snug field suit, she smoothed the wrinkles and began to equip her gear. The small black pistol packed enough punch to level a wild boar, but she hoped the eight round clip was enough. Luckily the advanced handgun could be quickly adjusted to use many other types of rounds, so she would have the option of procuring ammo on the field. The long silver knife was painted black earlier in the week, the edge sharpened to a deadly razor's edge capable of slicing metal cables with the right application of force. She slid that carefully in the sheath strapped to her hip, mindful of its tip. She doubted she'd need the first aid spray, but she tucked that into her back pouch just in case, along with the poison antidotes she had prepared earlier in the day. Lastly, she planted the radio transceiver in her ear, flipping the rubber-guarded speaker down over her mouth.

The mountain climbing gear was a bit more of a mystery to her. A week of training, and she still didn't quite understand it. She hadsuggestedparachuting in, but Wesker had to have it Wesker's way, and so she swam. She almost wondered if her trouble learning the equipment properly was her own way of telling Wesker to sod off. Or perhaps sorting through similar feeling apparatus of varying sizes in pitch black darkness was asdifficult as one would think. And no flashlights of any kind, Wesker had ordered, a small smile spreading across his stony face. Apparently the image of Ada fumbling about in the dark was something he enjoyed.

Eventually, she got up the sheer side of the rocky cliffs, her body aching even more. Is this what Iron Men competitors felt like? She had swam nearly three miles of freezing water and climbed over half a mile straight upwards. She loosely toyed with the idea of stacking her times against those men's, as she was well ahead of schedule. She sat to rest on the edge of the bluffs, stashing the ropes and hooks in a place she would be able to find quickly later on. That is, if she didn't take the plane. Wesker could go to hell; if the plane was there, why not take it to avoid another mini-marathon? The pilot's log might also come in handy locating other hidden research facilities, she thought. Of course that's what she'd tell Wesker, not that she was just too lazy to make her way back to the boat like he'd planned. When it came to lying, it was all about painting the right picture.

--

She decided it was a good time to check in with Big Brother, and so she knelt behind a low boulder, snapping on her communicator headset.

"This is Ada," she whispered into the mouthpiece, wondering once again why they didn't use codenames. Wesker had smirked at her suggestion, and he told her he _wanted_ Umbrella to know _he_ was behind the attack.

Her earpiece flickered to life, the crackle of static short when Wesker's voice came over the line.

"Ada, have you reached the checkpoint," he asked calmly. She could hear gunshots and faint screams in the background over his voice. He was leading the breach force, and yet he seemed utterly unaffected by all the violence around him.

"Affirmative, Wesker," she replied. "I've located the exhaust vent the intelligence reported and I'm preparing to use it to infiltrate the facility; just waiting for the bravo team to cut the auxiliary power."

"Excellent work, Ada," he said, nearly sounding impressed. "And nearly four minutes ahead of schedule…"

"I aim to please," she said, darting behind another rock. There seemed to be no guard presence, and the fixed camera didn't seem to be a problem at all. It was all a matter of getting used to it; some simply had no patience, she thought.

She checked her watch again. If the bravo team failed to take out the system, she'd have to manually destroy that camera, probably triggering a dozen alarms. While the full scale assault on the island already had them on alert, sealing off a ventilation system and filling it with toxic gases wasn't far below Umbrella's standard operating procedure, especially a self-automated defense system. But if the squad took out the power, there was a 30 second delay before it switched over to backup, giving her just enough time to cover the 50 yards of open field, remove the vent cover without triggering the secondary alarms, and climb through it, putting the cover back into place. Waiting anxiously, she went over her infiltration devices for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Where are they, Wesker," she asked impatiently.

"Ada…this is not your first time in the field," Wesker said sternly. "Do not presume your timetable supercedes anyone else's." She heard his voice again, this time distant, and she realized he was talking to someone. He came back on a moment later, his voice once again cool. "They're breaching the main doors as I speak…and they've confirmed best possible scenario on the vent's secondary sensors."

"Non-operational?"

"Is there any better scenario?"

"Guess I must be living right," she mumbled, doubting it was even necessary to wait for the team. If the schmucks running this facility were careless enough to leave their backdoor unprotected, then they either deserved the ass-pounding coming their way, or they knew no one was insane enough to climb up that deep dark hole. She was prepped, though, given all the information available, and to top it off, she was a hardened survivor when it came to the T-Virus and its by-products. She doubted there would be anything she'd never seen before.

Wesker's voice came over the transceiver again, but she was already in a full sprint when he gave the go ahead. "Proceed to the next check point, Ada," he said smoothly, and she decided to save her energy rather than respond. "Ada, do you copy?"

She was about a dozen yards from her destination when she saw the tripwire, about waist level and obscured by a small bush. She threw her body into a dive, rolling under it and bouncing back to her feet. So apparently the guys in charge weren't complete schmucks after all. She slowed to a jog, flipping on her thermal goggles. They picked up three other tripwires, spread in different directions, probably meant to cover each approach angle. She'd already encountered the most direct one, so two of the others weren't a concern at all for her. Her mental countdown timer gave her just over fifteen seconds, so she decided to take it all in one go. Building up her speed again, she leapt over the low trip line, springing from a hand plant to somersault towards the wall. She met it at full speed, and kept her knees high and moving, the powerful grip of her boots pushing her up the wall and towards the vent grate. Grasping it with gloved hands, she released her clenched teeth to drop the small torch into her waiting hand and activated it in one smooth motion.

She made it through the steel vent in just under ten seconds, giving her nearly five seconds to spare. Wesker would be impressed, she thought.

"I'm in," she said, panting.

"Tired already?"

"Just figuring I might have to hold my breath to fit through here," she said, bumping clumsily through the narrow vent shaft.

"Be grateful it's not a waste pipe like first reported."

"Yeah, better than winning the lottery," she groaned, pulling herself forward.

--

She lay tucked up tightly in the dark space, the dampness of the morning dew clinging to the insides of her hiding place. The first wave of pursuers had been easy enough to lose; she'd lost them over two miles back. But these new guys, they were old pros, sweeping the area with surgical precision and using constant contact to eliminate areas. However, these men were soldiers, not seasoned trackers, and she'd been mindful to not leave any tracks over the last few clicks. Apparently those long hot summers spent in the woods with Chris and Uncle Tom weren't a waste after all.

It wasn't her skill, though, that lead her to stumble upon this hollowed tree, but luck. The opening was hidden by a thick blanket of moss and leaves, and she discovered it when leaning against it to catch her breath. She had been running for over forty minutes, and figured to have covered about four or so miles of deep forest. These were probably friends of that squad she and Leon had taken out earlier in the day. Either that, or Umbrella was putting out a hefty price on her head, considering how doggedly persistent they were.

Her thoughts returned to Sherry, hoping the young girl would be safe with Leon. If anything, Umbrella would consider a Birkin top priority over a Redfield. Her and Leon were merely consolation prizes, but the end result was still something she wanted no part of. She still couldn't understand what Leon had been thinking, but she got the impression pushing her away wasn't something he wanted to do. He'd had a tendency to take on too much responsibility, as if no one else could handle it, which rather offended her modern female sensibility. But for all his personality quirks, he was as good a choice as any to watch over Sherry. Claire knew she could trust him.

Through the thin bark of the tree, she heard the sound of movement outside, the crunch of dead leaves under heavy boots. Looks like they were better than she had thought if they were this close to her. From the sound of it, he was probably no about twenty feet from her hiding spot.

"No sign of the target in sector 7-G," he said, his voice masked by a standard issue Umbrella helmet. These guys were serious business indeed. She waited to hear a reply, but heard nothing. "Yes, I am aware how dangerous she is…but she's alone now, and unarmed. She won't be pulling any tricks on me. Mason's squad were idiots," he added. So, he was talking over the radio, definitely alone. More leaves crunching, getting further away. She debated whether she should wait, or use this opportunity to ambush him. His weapons might be useful, but all she had was her survival knife against his sub machine gun. Sighing, Claire remembered she was no ninja, and decided to wait until nightfall to make her move. She dug through her pocket, removing the wild mushrooms she had dug up earlier, gnawing at the orange tinted caps. Grimacing at the chalky dirt texture, she wondered if she really should be thankful for Chris teaching her this survival stuff.

--

"Grateful, my ass," she muttered, moving sluggishly through the ventilation system. She was not large, maybe 110 pounds soaking wet, but she still felt like a sardine packed into a tin can. "I guess some vent systems are actually meant for ventin', not for crawlin'," she said to herself, feeling the breeze of warm air against her face. The on-screen indicators built into her thermal goggles told her she had about thirty more meters to go, and then she'd be close enough to the research labs to make it on foot. This was just Wesker erring on the side of caution; from what she could tell, the battle was leaning heavily in favor of the assault team.

The low vent grate was just within her sight when Ada caught the smell. That familiar, repugnant odor she thought she had left behind months ago. Like rotten tofu soaked in vinegar, the acrid stench was something she did not miss in the slightest. Best to be careful here, she realized, extending the fiber optic cable just above her eyepiece and sliding it through the opening. She turned it with her free hand, spotting two zombies in the far corridor, snacking on what looked like a researcher. Them's the breaks, she thought grimly, punching the covering off and crawling out. She took a moment to dust herself off before quickly drawing her pistol. She decided the undead pair at the corpse buffet could wait, and quietly doubled back around the L-corridor to loop past them towards the main lab.

The lock was a keycard-based system, and for once she was actually pleased to have Wesker on her side. One of his agents had procured a skeleton type key, programmable to just about every advanced electronic card system in the world. She slid the card into place, punching each number on the reader, and prompting the encryption decoder to test every possible actual code. She popped it out and into her loader, which in turn encoded the card with the proper information. She slipped the new card into the door's reader slot, and just like that, the heavy steel doors began to open.

Cool air poured forth from the room, and she wondered if the ventilation system she had just been in was part of this one's network. She shook her head; even these lazy guys were well funded enough to know better. Then again, the image of that researcher's empty eyes as her former colleagues munched on her reminded Ada that money didn't always ensure caution.

Long rows of oddly shaped test tubes and beakers lined the countertops, some looking straight out of Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. Really, was it necessary to have a double loop de loop pair of test tubes? Memories of summer days at amusement parks and county fairs came to mind; as a child, she would only drink soda through wacky straws. It no doubt pissed off her parents, but she thought kids had a right to be bratty about those little types of things. Maybe the scientists here were of a like mind when it came to getting things their way.

The rest of the lab was clean, but bordering on ancient. A lot of the equipment, particularly the chemical sets, seemed to have been bought at an antique yard sale. Either someone had unusual tastes for the turn of the century lifestyle, or bio-weapons research wasn't paying like it used to. The computers, however, were new, and completely state of the art. She sat at the terminal and powered it up.

After her fifth denial at the login screen, she flipped her utility knife open, using its tip to remove the screws holding the side covering. It wouldn't budge. Now even more frustrated, she sparked the her mini torch, cutting a large square opening into the side. She snapped the remote modem connector into place, gaining Wesker's computer whiz direct access to the network. Ada flicked her radio back on to share the good news.

"Wesker, the device is in place," she said, her words echoing dully in the large room. No response. She repeated herself to similar effect, then began to adjust the frequency. She looked around, realizing that the lab walls were probably thick enough to block the signal. Time for plan B, she thought, tucking back the device in her pouch and heading for the door.

--

Her heavy footfalls pounded dully in her ears. The world around her became a blur of senses: her labored breathing, her rhythmic steps gaining speed as she sprinted along, blood rushing to her head. The squad had waited far longer than she would have expected, and she laughed at her foolishness to think it was _she_ who was playing it safe. She heard a short burst of gunfire, and the bark of a nearby tree splintered under the hail of bullets. Claire leaned away, pumping her arms harder as she ran towards the sound of water in the distance. A body of water might be a good way to gain some ground on these guys, she thought.

"Wait for the shot, you idiot," ordered the leader. He was guiding the pack, the empty eyes of his mask glowing against the fading dusk. They would soon switch over to night vision, and she would be done for sure, she realized. These men had both the supplies and the will to stay out here all night in order to catch her. If she was going to make a move, now would be the time.

Claire skidded to a halt at the edge of the cliff, small pebbles skittering down the rocky slope. What appeared to be a small river sat at the bottom of a high waterfall, the idyllic image something straight out of a soap commercial. But from this height, with night descending, she couldn't tell for surehow deep the water went. The sound of snapping branches and thudding boots behind her helped make a decision. Taking two big steps back, she took off, leaping as far as she could into the swirling darkness below.

--

_Writer's note: Yes, I know I jumped from the Rockford Island incident back a few months to the day after the Raccoon City event, but that's the great thing about RE; consistency is optional! I'm still messing around with the time frames, paralleling these "baptisms of fire" for each character (expect Leon's to come soon!). While Claire already has gone through a lot, I intend to make her an even tougher character. She is a Redfield, after all. The hardest part about writing these chapters that jump around so much is actually deciding on a chapter name that can sum up what it's about...anyways, I hope it won't be odd to have Claire get away, only to be in the next scene on Rockford Island months later. Maybe she'll even come face to face with our favorite agent...but what will ensue; a mutual feminine respect, or the greatest catfight in history? _


	5. Adapting to adversity

--

The cold wind whipping through her hair, she forced flailing limbs to straighten, bracing her body to cut through the surface of the water. If she even hit water, that is. Claire hated herself for a moment when she closed her eyes, despising the sign of cowardice, but everything really was out of her hands by now. Watching your body slam into jagged rocks really wasn't something even the bravest of souls ever looked forward to anyway.

She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief when her feet sliced into the river's icy water, but knew she'd need every bit of air she could get. Her body sank into the swirling depths, and her boots eventually touched the rocky bottom of the river. She estimated its depth at about nine feet, more than enough cushion. Pushing off the bottom, she swam with the current, keeping herself low in the water. Maybe the goon squad would figure her for dead, but she wasn't going to count on it this time. The last time she underestimated them it had nearly got her killed.

It was barely an hour earlier, when she had finally limped out of her cramped hiding place. She took a moment to walk off the stiffness in her limbs, feeling like her entire body had fallen asleep on her. Having spent nearly three hours in the hollowed out tree trunk, this was no surprise. What was a surprise was the sudden arrival of the soldier she had heard earlier. She wasn't sure if he had been waiting or backtracking, but there he was, his stubby machinegun trained on her.

"Looks like I bagged the top prize today," he said, and she could hear the grin in his words. "Keep your hands up," he instructed, waving his weapon. Claire had no choice but to comply, watching and waiting for her chance to make a move for her knife. "I'm supposed to shoot you on sight, but there are more than a couple guys in my unit who want some payback for what you and your little boyfriend did to our guys...don't like the thought of that, huh," he said, seeing the worried expression on her face. "You're not too bad looking either," he added, a trace of regret in his voice.

Her eyes intent on his gun, she took a step forward, her foot bumping against something hard in the grass. Without looking down, she knew what it was; a fallen tree branch, rotted but still quite hefty.

"That's far enough," he said, a dozen feet from her. She couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if the barrel of his gun wavered ever so slightly. Maybe killing a young, unarmed woman was difficult no matter how nice Umbrella's health benefits were. Claire craned her long neck, tossing her hair suggestively; she had to make a move, and soon. This guy no doubt radioed his comrades their location already, and would be on their way. He seemed to pay no mind to her feminine gesture.

She dug the leather toe of her boot into the dirt, just under the fallen branch. The fall season had spread dead leaves every which way, so it was well hidden in the underbrush. Claire raised her hands even further up, locking her fingers and resting them atop her head. A sexy look hadn't worked on him, so she played the weak, helpless woman. Maybe he'd go for that kind of easy prey; scum that preferred to take what would be given. Trying her best to look at this man as her worst enemy, she sought to summon enough emotional hatred to kill him.

"Listen, you don't need to do this, right," she asked him. "I'm not going to say anything if that's what you think…really," she said. "I just want to go home," she pleaded, her words longingly sad.

"It's nothing personal," he replied, his voice hardening. "We made our choices long ago…"

"Not me," she begged. "I just stumbled onto this, and now you want to kill me for something I won't even do…"

"Sorry, it's not how you or I want it, but that's how it is," he said, shrugging apologetically.

The moment the barrel of his gun hesitated, she kicked the branch up at him in a sudden explosion of dead leaves and dirt. The spinning branch hit him squarely in the face, surprising him and knocking him off balance. Before it connected, her survival knife was already out of her shoulder sheath and down by her hip when she lunged at him. As he turned back, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in his goggles, her face a twisted mask of raw, animalistic desperation. Claire didn't falter, though, as she plunged the silver blade into the side of his throat next to his Adam's Apple, grasping the handle with both hands and twisting it to the sound of crunching cartilage snapping in her ears—

But that wasn't real, that wasn't going to happen today. The thought of ramming her knife into a living person's throat, watching a man die at her feet solely because of her actions…was not something she was ready to handle, no matter what she had been through in the past 24 hours.

"You bitch," he screamed, struggling to pull the imbedded knife from his bleeding shoulder. As he thrashed about angrily, his machine gun began to fire, bullets whizzing past her ducking head and scattering the leaves above them. Claire released her left hand from the knife handle to grasp the flailing gun, pushing the rattling carbine away. Her right hand still firmly holding the knife in place, she planted her feet and twisted her body, throwing the larger man over her hip. They fell to the ground in a rolling scrum, Claire digging the knife in further, hoping he would release his finger from the trigger. Finally gaining leverage atop him, she jammed her right knee against his chest and stepped down on his gun with her left foot. Gasping from the strain, she glanced down at the pinned man. His mask removed in the melee, she saw a pitiful and wincing little man, balding even though he was barely in his thirties. Claire felt an odd wave of sentiment for the man, who had had an opportunity to kill her, but missed it because of his own doubt. It was lucky for her she hadn't met a stone cold killer, or her body would be riddled with bullets by now, or maybe even worse. She wondered if he had intentionally spared her life with that shrug of his shoulders; it was only fair she do the same.

Kicking away his now silent gun, she pulled the knife from his shoulder and quickly covered the wound with her hand. Curious, he looked expectantly at her, waiting for the finishing blow, but instead she gently took his hand and guided it to keep pressure on the wound. He felt the warmth of his blood flowing through his fingers, and he realized immediately that he missed her kind touch. She half smiled at him, as if unsure of what she was doing but doing it all the same. The sound of men plowing through the underbrush around them broke the moment, and Claire stood, taking off into the woods. Despite this new predicament, she was pleased by the outcome of that situation. Both of them made it out alive, and he had a serious enough wound to satisfy his superiors yet not endanger his life.

It never occurred to Claire that her survival knife could be tainted with blood from undead T-Virus carriers after her Raccoon City ordeal. The entire squad of men died two days later in quarantine at a nearby Umbrella facility.

--

Dodging zombies really gets old, she thought, firing a round squarely through one's oozing forehead. As the corpse fell, she leapt atop it, pushing off its squishy chest tograb the balcony overhang. She swung long legs over the railing, coming down in a low crouch with her gun trained on the hallway before her. Wesker's maps had suggested the mainframe to be in the basement of the main building, but his intelligence had finally proved wrong since this little adventure started. Ada hoped that wouldn't be an omen of things to come.

It was amazing to her how drastically the architecture of the buildings had changed; it was like stepping into another era. Everything was vintage, expensive, and looked to belong in a museum. A very _old_ museum, at that. It was the kind of place owned by a fleet of great grandmothers who had amassed a fortune, or at the very least, someone who wanted to come off as having "taste". Ada knew right away that she didn't like the owner of this place.

Wesker's report had mostly piecemeal information on the Ashfords, Alfred and Alexia, two brilliant wonder kids heir to the Umbrella Empire. Word had it that Alfred was a bit of a bumbling klutz, and that it was his sister who was the true brains of the family. There were no available photographs of her, but reports indicated that she was a strikingly beautiful young woman. So, beautiful _and_ brilliant…

"And I thought I was the only one," she had joked to Wesker at the briefing. He didn't so much as crack a smile. Ada got the impression he was still a bit pissed at her for wondering aloud how _he_ couldn't have gotten a photograph of Alexia to go with the report. His familiar voice suddenly broke in over the radio, rousing her from that pleasant memory of reminding Wesker of an imperfection in his master plan.

"Ada, my team has uncovered something…unexpected," he said.

"You didn't plan for something," she asked, feigning amazement.

"Your flippancy is neither necessary nor desired," he answered bluntly. "Unless you would prefer to go in blindly…"

"Alright, alright…what is it," she sighed. She got the feeling she was going to regret her little remark before she got much older.

"The system mainframe shut down automatically once the attack began," he began. "Umbrella must have instituted new protocol since my…departure, to ensure their protection. As such, all the relevant data banks have been wiped clean."

"So what do we do now?"

"The objective remains the same; I need data on Alexia's Code Veronica virus. Only now the means has changed; instead of data, I will need an actual sample. Or one of the Ashfords."

"Kidnapping is a little out of my expertise, Wesker, especially since I have no idea what half the Wonder Twins looks like."

"Nonetheless, this the mission I am giving to you. I imagine I don't have to remind you what will happen if you fail to comply…do I, Ada?"

"…Of course not, Wesker. I'll be at the rendezvous point as scheduled."

"Of course you will," he said, clicking off before she could say anything else.

Ada cursed herself, wishing she had just cleaned out his serum supply and gone on her own to find a means to synthesize it when she'd had the chance. Hell, she knew people. Maybe not as many as Wesker, but she knew enough biochemists since her undercover work on John that she could call in some favors. Then again, she had a feeling most of those scientists were either zombie chow or dispatched by Wesker. He had a way of considering every viable option and crushing it methodically in his hands. Part of her admired that in him, but the bigger part of her despised that condescending and manipulative asshole.

She rose from her crouch and began to creep down the hallway, keeping to the shadows along the wall. Her nose didn't pick up the faints scent of undead flesh, but she didn't want to take chances. There were enough unknowns in this scenario for her taste as it was.

--

_Writer's note: I really got into the gruesomeness of Claire killing that guy, but I just couldn't see it in her character being that savage. She's not quite the badass we'll see in Code Veronica, but she will get there soon if I can work out the next story bits properly. I loved the irony of her sparing his life and still being responsible for his death; peoplewant to only be responsiblefor what they see in front of them, it seems. _

_I have a big chunk of the next chapter already written, but I just can't decide on a few things. I figure this is a good sized piece for a setup chapter; expect things to pick up again soon and head further down the timeline in later installments. Once the Raccoon incident is completely out of the way, I can focus solely on Rockford Island and beyond; expect some double crosses, betrayals, and nasty surprises. I'm also playing RE4's Separate Ways right now, so maybe I'll draw some inspiration from that...I'm not quite sure on a few things in the Ada/Wesker relationship. _


	6. Surviving the game

--

Climbing exhaustedly from the raging river, she dragged her shivering body along the muddy banks before finally reaching dry land. A small part of her wished she hadn't given Sherry her vest; the slightest extra bit of clothing would provide at least some warmth. Every muscle in her body wanted to collapse, but she forced herself to her wobbly feet, steadying herself with a makeshift walking stick. Claire knew if she stopped to rest, she wouldn't be able to get up. And so she pushed onward, heading east in the hopes of hitting the highway further down the way, away from the police and their questions and Umbrella and their goons. Then again, she would probably hear out the devil's offer for her soul to put up with some annoying and incompetent cops. At least they weren't trying to kill her. She just hoped someone would pull over for a hobbling, mud covered hitchhiker.

Pushing her way through the deep darkness, Claire realized she must've sprained her ankle doing her Fugitive impression. The adrenaline must have dulled the pain, but now the ankle was beginning to throb with every step. Sighing, she put more of her weight onto the other foot, using a sturdy tree branch to balance herself. The bumpy terrain wasn't exactly making it easier, either. The moon was high, nearly full, but the thick trees weren't granting her much, if any, of the moon's light. Two shitty days in a row, she thought. Which one was worse?

The earth beneath her feet slipped away, dropping into a suddenly steep decline, and she tumbled downwards, her waving hands seeking something to grab but finding nothing. Bouncing through dirt and bushes and onto harder ground, she felt her ribs crack and the wind knocked from her lungs. She lay in a shallow ditch, staring up at the open sky, and felt a sudden need to cry, to break down and just let it all flow out. Maybe to even let those guys find her and put her out of her misery.

It was the image of her brother that broke her wave of self-pity, his quiet strength and determination guiding them through the many hardships their family had faced. The last time she had seen him was when he had dropped her off at school the month before, heaving far too many of her boxes onto his broad shoulders and lugging them up countless flights of stairs without a single complaint. She could tell he was in a rush, anxious to get back and investigate deeper into the grisly cannibal murders in the city, but still he made time for her.

He tried to never talk about his work, but anyone with the slightest morbid curiosity knew about the rash of brutal murders on the city's outskirts. Even her summer job at the shop had resulted in her learning some of the more lurid details. Most of the men were reluctant to talk about such gruesome stuff around the new girl, but once they found out she wasn't the prissy type that they had to tip-toe around, it was all they seemed to talk about. Claire mostly listened, worrying more about Chris being in danger, mentally preparing herself for the worst each day. She swore to him that last night, that if he let anything bad happen to himself, she would never forgive him. As he walked down the steps, he turned back and said the same went for her.

Claire remembered that moment fondly; it was the first time her brother had ever treated her as an equal and not just as a little sister. He had skipped the usual lectures, too, as if he finally trusted her to make her own mistakes. Maybe the year before she had spent away at college had changed him, not having to constantly look out for her and learning to worry on his own time. She realized she couldn't let him down no matter how badly things looked.

Fighting the soreness that filled her every muscle, Claire rolled onto her side, bracing her hands against the ground and pushing herself up slowly. Her eyes suddenly widened as she saw the light up ahead on the mountainside. It was probably just a light beacon, but those stations had communications, maybe even people.

The incline was thankfully easy, even with her aching ankle. She could smell skunky marshlands to the east, and she headed away from them; footing was much more important now with her tender ankle. Sloshing through miles of wet mud would tire her out long before she reached her destination. Not to mention the obvious tracks she'd leave behind.

Claire reached what appeared to be a worn dirt path, the beaten back brush already thickening back over. Had she been walking at her normal pace, she would have missed the small clearing altogether. Peering through the foliage, her sharp eyes picked out a small cabin no more than a hundred yards ahead. Although the desolate cabin bore no light, she began to limp towards it.

She quietly pushed the door open with the butt of her knife, her eyes slowly scanning the dark interior of the cabin before stepping in. A dusky odor emanated from the inside, but there was little dust on the windows. This place was definitely lived in, at least recently. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the thick blackness, she realized the cabin was larger than she had expected. The ceiling was over a dozen feet high, crisscrossing rafters forming the support beams of a small overhead loft. Most of the wood was unfinished, giving the one-room cabin a harsh and raw edge. This was definitely not a cozy retreat for whoever owned it. She faintly recalled reading something about strange sightings in the Arklay Mountains, and speculation that it was probably being a hermit of some kind. Could this be that hermit's retreat, she wondered.

Regardless of who owned the cabin, it seemed no one was there now. Claire hobbled over to an unvarnished cabinet, rifling through the drawers in search of a first aid kit. She'd need to fashion a splint if she wanted to stay ahead of her pursuers, and she'd have to do it quickly. She found a moth eaten sweater in the lower drawer, gratefully wrapping it around her still damp shoulders. No one would miss this ugly thing, she figured.

Rubbing her mud caked hands together for warmth, she continued her hasty search for anything useful. She had initially feared that whomever lived here might be in a sudden need for the supplies, but there were plenty left. Turned out there was no medical kit of any kind, so she made due with what she could scavenge.

Her sock peeled off painfully, the elastic clinging about her swollen ankle, ultimately revealing several blisters and two bleeding toenails. Placing the short wooden plank against the throbbing joint, she tightly tied the shreds of the towel she had found, wincing at the painful process. Claire took her knife, slicing into the side of her boot to widen the opening as she pulled it over her sloppy splint job. She drilled holes into each side of the cut with the tip of the knife, sewing it up with a shoestring she had dug out of the rusted footlocker. Looking at her crusty, blood soaked sock with disdain, she figured the least she could do was dispose of it after borrowing so many supplies from the cabin's owner.

Tossing it out the window, she saw a worn box, bigger than a jewelry box but small enough to go unnoticed, sitting by the windowsill. Pushing open its slide top revealed a pile of old handwritten letters held by a rubber band. She tossed those to the side, immediately feeling more guilt for invading the cabin owners' privacy, but hoping to fish out a map. Beneath the stack of letters she found some old black and white photographs of a frail young woman and what appeared to be her significant other. Flipping one over into the moonlight, she saw the feminine scrawl of a woman professing her undying love for someone named Al. Claire guessed it to be the man in the other picture, a robust and dark-haired man wearing a white lab coat. Must've been a doctor of some sort, too. Dorothy certainly knew how to pick them.

The box was quickly returned to its place when it yielded no useful info. The small desk held nothing useful except for a flask of whiskey, which she considered taking before putting it back. As dry mouthed as she was, the alcohol would only dehydrate her further. Plus she hated the buttery woodsy taste. Chris loved the stuff, but she suspected it was part of his tough guy routine. She had caught him sipping a wine cooler at her graduation party, and he had begged her not to tell anyone. Claire laughed at the memory, his red faced embarrassment at the collapse of his tough guy façade far too rare to forget.

--

The office was plush, the décor modest but with a taste for fine woods and sleek, elegant design. Light generously flowed through white curtains draped over tall windows displaying a wide expanse of greenery. A few pictures adorned the walls, featuring many famous political faces, but Leon didn't want to seem impressed by them, instead sitting on a simple leather seat by the desk. The lower lumbar of the chair forced a straight back position, and Leon couldn't help but think this was somewhat intentional.

A door behind him opened, and he recognized the familiar faces of Agent Red and Blue behind the serious looking short man dressed in a simple dark blue suit. The small man walked over to the desk, sitting down without offering handshake nor smile. The two agents stood behind Leon, their hawkish gaze never leaving him.

"Stand up, you disrespectful punk," ordered Agent Blue, shoving the back of his chair. Leon stared blankly at him.

"Not necessary, Jones," said the small man, his own birdlike eyes sizing up Leon. "So…you're the one I've been hearing about. Must say, I expected you to be a bit taller," he said gruffly, a slight Southern drawl to his easygoing voice. Leon opened his mouth to respond, but the man was already talking again, his words gaining momentum.

"It's quite impressive, but I'm sure you've been hearing that all day now and must be sick and tired of it," he said. "Hell, I'm sick of saying it myself already. But like my wife used to say, 'tis the burden of doing something amazing'."

"What did you do with Sherry," Leon blurted out.

"Ah, a direct man…I like that," admired the man. "My men here have informed me of your little 'backroom deal'," he said, pausing. "The thing is, they made you this offer without talking to me first. Seeing as how I'm behind the nice big desk with the nice corner office, you figure they'd run everything by me," he added, glancing at his men. "But the way it turns out, the US government has no rights to custody of that girl, no matter what happened to her parents. As a US citizen, she has no special rights to asylum like some foreigner might. I know, I know…the system failed her, wah wah…but decisions regarding her well-being are best made by those who know her, love her, and—well, you get the idea."

"Where-is-she?"

"She's with her family, son," answered the talkative man. "Best protection there is on God's green earth. Some distant relative came and claimed her this morning; nothing more for you to worry about."

"I made a promise I'd look after her."

"So you're also a man of your word, I take it. Good…very good. We can use a man like you in the new agency I'm starting up. So I'll tell you what; you complete your training and placement, and I will make sure you can have regular contact with that little girl there."

"That wasn't the deal I agreed to."

"Maybe, but that's the deal you have. Me, I been doing this job here for a long, long time, son. I make decisions every day that impact the people of this country's lives. Sometimes we have to make harder choices than we thought; promises are broken, mistakes are made…the only thing we can do is make the best choice we can."

"Like my 'choice' to come here?"

"Just think of the opportunity you have before you, not about the way you got here. This new department could revolutionize US domestic security…"

"Isn't that what the Secret Service is for?"

"Yes, but the Service has a very limited reach. The O.R.E. won't be limited by the same constraints."

"O.R.E.?"

"Yes, the 'Operations Reporting to the Executive Office'…ORE for short."

"Shouldn't it be OREO, then…or were you afraid of the cookie people coming after you," Leon asked. The man smiled.

"This is a chance to work directly under the President of the United States, Mr. Kennedy. I hope you realize the seriousness of the matter. While I may appreciate your…candor, I assure you, the men who will be training you most certainly won't."

Leon straightened his defiant slouch, realizing this was for real. The little man took notice, changing his tone to reflect a more professional manner, even leaning in towards the young man.

"What I am offering you is a chance to start something new, something that will start with the dismantling of the Umbrella Corporation. Wouldn't you like that?"

"…I'm listening."

--

Her trained ears picked up the sound of shuffling feet. The air was thinner up here, the howling wind louder. Over the gusts of wind, she could still make out that distinct noise. And yet…there was none of that usual, rancid odor of rotting flesh. She had taken care to move upwind, but still couldn't detect that particular stench of undead.

Her skin suddenly felt clammy, a cold shiver of what might have been fear running along her sweaty back. This was similar to what she had felt when she had stumbled upon the Ashford twin's sanctuary; the nightmarish image of that gigantic doll's head still lingering in her thoughts. The mansion had been empty, void of even the slightest clue to the whereabouts of either Ashford, but loaded with odd trinkets, most of great monetary value (and which Ada promptly pocketed). She had also found some shell casings by the staircase, which smelled freshly of gunpowder, but no trace of blood. As far as she could tell, someone with a high-powered rifle had taken more than a few potshots from the balcony and been unable to hit anything. Whoever it was definitely needed to invest more in target practice than fancy guns.

That sound again. As Ada got closer, it occurred to her that the sound was slightly different from the clumsy zombies. This was a strange sound —something like a small locomotive's chugging pistons. But squishy. Like massive muscles contracting and folding up within themselves, or gallons of fluid being pumped out of a giant heart.

Sidling against the corner of the hallway, she leaned slowly around the edge and saw what appeared to be another zombie. This one was quite different, however, much to her annoyance. Though nearly the same size as an undead, she noticed its skin was a yellowish tan as it stood stark naked in the dim light of the hallway's candles. She smirked at the absence of genitalia, and couldn't help but think that was for the better. The lopsided gait of the creature distinguished it from anything else she had ever read about in Wesker's files…unless he was holding out on her, which was completely reasonable to suspect. On its right side hung a mass of muscle larger than she could have ever imagined on a human; it was easily as thick as a telephone pole. It hung limply, but she could see tendons clenching and contorting, shifting chunks of hardened sinew from side to side.

Never was a fan of body building guidos, she thought, sliding her higher-powered rounds into the handgun. These were mercury core rounds with a dash of acetate compound and compressed nitrogen, a combination deadly to the stronger virus infected beings. Though she was going in with no knowledge of the monster before her, she assessed it to be a Level B bio-creature. Probably on par with a Hunter, or maybe an advanced Licker. Regardless, one well placed round would eliminate the threat easily enough. As handy as her advanced gun was, its shortened barrel forced her to get closer than she liked for the most accurate shooting. Still, Ada figured she could stay out of its one arm reach and get a good shot off in spite of that.

She stepped around the corner, her handgun held straight down and parallel to her side, and crept quietly towards the creature. Taking careful aim, she cocked the hammer, the audible click of the gear shifting louder than she had anticipated. She had neglected to oil the cylinder earlier in the day, and cursed her lack of preparation. It turned to face her now, quicker than she would have expected. Ada froze for a second, taking in its gruesome visage. Its terrible features were stretched, the nose missing, and a mouth half-covered by what appeared to be a flap of hardened skin, frozen in a tragically evil grin. Even though she hesitated for no more than a second, that second was all it needed. Its elephant trunk arm lashed outwards at her, stretching over a dozen feet and slapping her roughly across the chest.

Slamming against a wall, she felt the plaster cave in around her at the impact. She struggled to free herself from the hole, keeping an eye on the creature as it moved towards her with deadly purpose. Wriggling free, Ada went to raise her handgun, and found her hands empty. Desperately searching for the weapon amidst the rubble, she saw it far behind the monster, at least fifteen feet away. Digging hastily through her side pack, she realized she hadn't taken the compact flash-bangs Wesker had instructed during the briefing. She had been lost in her thoughts, imagining the opportunity to finally gain Wesker's trust, and perhaps that bit of rebellious daydreaming would cost Ada her life.

--

The two agents escorted him out, much more politely than before. It was like they had already accepted his induction into their secret brotherhood after only a few minutes of conversation.

"Surprised you didn't throw a hissy fit about him not introducing himself," said Jones.

"I may not read the newspaper everyday, but I know the Secretary of the Interior when I see him," Leon answered. "Former Chief of Staff to the last President, too, I believe."

"Looks like someone paid attention in civics," said the other agent, somewhat impressed. Leon tried to remember if his name was said at all. He shrugged, deciding it wasn't important.

"Knowing the score is more important than knowing the names, right?"

"Couldn't agree more, Leon," replied Jones. "Secretary Graham is a very busy man, so we're going to show you around the rest of the way."

"He didn't look that busy to me."

"Well, he is. In fact, he has to coordinate the cleanup operation in Raccoon City as well as any other PR fallout because of his involvement."

"And what involvement is that?"

"He's the one who made the recommendation to the President to nuke the city. As such, he's obligated to document and present the information to the public and media outlets."

"He what?"

"The fail safe had to be initiated. You saw what happened first hand…I figured you'd have supported the decision."

"I figure more importantly that any evidence was destroyed by his solution of blowing everything up."

"Perhaps. But the protocols of the O.R.E. will afford us allow far more freedom than your usual police procedures. So evidence isn't a must for us to go after the bad guys."

"That solution sounds worse than the problem."

"What, you a commie or something?"

Leon walked silently between them, the joking laughter of the two men ringing in his ears. He was lost in his thoughts, feeling guilty about Sherry, when he realized one of them had asked him a question.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked if you had a missus back home."

His mind was flooded with images over the past few days, flipping back and forth between Ada's cool smirk and Claire's soft eyes, the warm strength of Ada's grip and the wily toughness in Claire's smile.

"No, I don't," he finally said.

"What? I figure a pretty boy like you'd be a ladykiller for sure."

Their faces again, his thoughts torn between two beautiful women…one had died because he wasn't strong enough to save her, and the other had to be pushed away for her own protection. Yeah, he certainly was a killer with the ladies these days.

--

She had a long-standing rule never to get her hands dirty; not that she was the dainty, weak type. She just liked feeling fresh and clean. She had no choice but to cast that rule aside now, sighing as she reached for Wesker's knife prototype. He had gone on and on about the survival knife and its countless applications in field use, but Ada really didn't look forward to the idea of getting close enough to use it.

Not that I have a choice, she thought, watching the creature wind up its massive arm for another attack. This one was a thrust attack, the compact mass of muscle shooting out like a battering ram. Ada rolled to her side, towards the wall, before springing off it with her knife drawn.

The knife was nothing special; Wesker had at least been honest enough about that. What made this one unique was the sheath that housed it. Using a combination of treated chemicals on the sharpened steel, and applying microwaves on the blade just before drawing it would result in a far deadlier edge. The blade needed a minimum of 10 seconds for optimal "cooking" in its sheath, but Ada was short on time and used no more than six. Still, the ten-inch blade slid easily into the flesh of the creature's arm, running along its bone as she charged forwards, splitting the limb in two. Tightening muscles recoiled in pain as the monster howled, its already twisted face contorting even more. Releasing the handle, Ada dove under the gigantic arm as dark blood rained down on her and slid towards her pistol. Grasping its cool handle, she turned over quickly, firing one round squarely through the back of the creature's skull and painting the wall in front of it with bloody gray matter. It took a clumsy step forward, and she readied the gun for another shot. Turned out she didn't need it; the creature crumpled into a heap a moment later, the gaping hole in its forehead pouring out dark viscous fluid.

Wiping away the gore from her hair and face with disgust, she wondered if there was enough training in the world to keep from feeling this dirty ever again. The idle thought was interrupted by Wesker's voice over the radio.

"Ada…this is Wesker, do you copy?"

"Still alive and kicking."

"Alfred is on the move. Locate him and extract the information."

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"He is headed for the hangar, and he is wounded. He will surely know Alexia's location."

"Is he armed?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"I suppose not."

"Then get moving. I expect to see you tonight at our…usual time."

"Of course, Wesker," she said, hearing his radio click off in her ear. For the first time since the battle, she didn't notice the guts and gore clinging to her. Ada realized that no matter how much she washed and cleaned, she'd never feel clean again as long as Wesker had her in his grasp.

--

_Author's Note: To make up for past delays, I decided to write a bit more than usual. I keep meaning to end Claire's escape and move to the next storyline, but I can't resist making her suffer just a wee bit more. I promise, though, that her RC story will wrap up next chapter and she'll catch up to the rest of the timeline. Oddly, the biggest trouble I have when submitting these chapters (besides the site's tendency to take away spaces) is coming up with chapter names. So many different things going on, I'm considering abandoning chapter titles altogether. We'll see._


	7. Sherry's Interlude

_Interlude_

The feeling hadn't gone away. She had hoped it would after the first few days, but her loneliness seemed only to extend with the passing weeks. The room they had put her in was nice, with everything she could ever want but nothing she would ever need. The doctors and scientists tried to make it seem like Christmas every day, giving her too many cookies and anything else they thought a kid would like. Still, she seemed to spend most of her time staring out the window at the surrounding woods, watching the leaves change color before dying altogether. The staff had brought her an expensive gaming system for her birthday a few days earlier, but she hardly felt any desire to play it. Hearing them sing "Happy Birthday to you" only saddened her more, reminding her of salty TV dinners and an empty house witha grimy housekey tucked under the welcome mat.

Sherry had never been a spoiled child. Sure, her parents' jobs had afforded her a comfortable life, but they were rarely there to comfort or scold her like regular parents should. She remembered looking enviously at some of the other kids in her class, parents coming to pick them up and rush them along. They had busy lives too, but at least they were _there_.

The doctor would often ask her about this. The pretty young woman tried her hardest not to appear to be a doctor; dressing casually and using completely outdated slang words, but still failing miserably. She never had a notebook, but Sherry could see her desire to jog down notes when they spoke, her fingers twitchy and anxious. She introduced herself as Linda, and Sherry could see she was very smart. Probably not as smart as her dad, but few people were. Linda never came at a scheduled time, sometimes showing up at breakfast just to say hi or at night to brush her hair and try to gossip. As easygoing and genuinely caring as the woman seemed, Sherry didn't trust her. But the little girl put on a tight smile, nodding and telling Linda what she wanted to hear. Sherry just couldn't find it in herself to trust anyone these days.

--

"No significant change at all?"

"No change _at all_, doctor."

"That's not possible. The subject was infected with an evolving stage two G-Virus from her biological father, and you're telling me she's had no affect on her physiology _at all_?"

"Don't call her 'the subject', her name is Sherry," piped in the voice of a young woman from the corner.

"Something to add, Dr. Perkins…or should I say 'Linda'?"

"Dr. Perkins, please," she said, flipping through her notes. "Sherry is exhibiting no physiological changes other than the early stages of puberty. In fact—"

"Lin—eh, Dr. Perkins, I believe child psychology to be your expertise. Why don't you keep your observations relevant to your field?"

"Perhaps, doctor. But I have also spent more time studying the sub—with Sherry, than the rest of you. I have also spent more time directly with her and monitored her in various stages of emotional stress—"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, _doctor_. Remember that you were selected for this assignment because your age and appearance would foster a bond of trust with the subject. No other reason."

"Maybe you should remember that I'm the one collecting DNA samples for your team to conduct their little tests, _doctor_. Without her hair strands, you'd be stuck drugging her food and jamming her with needles. Tell me, what affect would that have on her emotional state, and thusly, your research?"

"I don't let emotions get in the way of testing a subject; this is to ensure the safety of the country, not to cater to some little girls' feelings…or one's own guilt."

"And yet you led the chorus of her birthday song, Richard. Face it, you know her emotional state is key for this research. Studies for over five decades have supported—"

"Enough of that, you two," interjected another scientist, his eastern European accent heavy. "Our results are conclusive, Dr. Hall. There has been zero genetic alteration of Sherry since she was brought here seventy five days ago."

"You know I can't believe that any more than you can, Valentin. We've all seen the G-Virus' effects, from the early stages to the onset of the later evolutions."

"But we've never seen the ultimate stage, or even a stage closely resembling what Dr. Birkin attained," argued a gaunt faced researcher. "We have to consider the possibility that at that point, the embryos weakened enough for a large dosage of the vaccine to eliminate any trace of it."

"And we've also seen the G-Virus affect single cell organisms, and others, on an _atomic _level. We have to plan for the eventuality that even one cell of the girl's molecular structure is tainted. Because if that's the case…"

"What are you suggesting?"

"Removing her from quarantine and…disposing of her. Keeping her contained here could be a risk—"

"You can't be serious," cried Linda. "She's just a child!"

"And so was Alexia when she began her incubation of the T-Veronica virus. Had she reached her full potential, we'd all be dead now, or under her control. Do you want to take a risk like that with this 'child'?"

"No, I don't. But we've only monitored her for two and a half months. Ashford's incubation ran for well over a decade, and the virus was radically different in the sample we—"

"Again, Linda…do not postulate on a subject you're unfamiliar with. Drastically different viruses or not, they both can yield disastrous results for all of us. And yet…I can't see any benefit to our research to so quickly abandon all hope…"

"Is that a compromise...?"

"Very well. We'll continue on this path until a later time," he sighed. "As such, weekly scheduled meetings will be changed to every other week unless any change is detected…and God help us all if we're wrong."

--

_Note: This was something I wrote as a warmup that I initially scrapped. I likedthe rhythm of the dialogue, and the scientists here are all based on actual people I know, so it was hard to just throw away. Especially considering how their little "experiment" is going to turn out, I thought this was a nice little slice of life from the laboratory. Foreshadowing...dontcha love it? Even though I usually use Interludes for a halfway point, I still have a lot of story to write out here. Expect other interludes in the future. Because honestly, I love writing them for the same reason I love writing fanfic: no limitations. _


	8. Crossroad

--

The mountain of rubble before her was silent, the dust long settled. She rubbed her thumb along one of the still standing supports, and found little trace of dust or dirt. The building must have fallen in the past couple of days, and it was not the result of a natural disaster, she concluded. Not that it really mattered at this point. Claire walked along the outer edges, looking for the easiest path around the fallen building. She moved quietly, the memory of those strange creatures she had seen along the path still lingering in her mind. They looked like they had once been undead, but with large plant-like growths sprouting from their moldy bodies, resembling walking flowerpots.

Claire began to move with even more urgency, skirting the inner rim of the menacing steel fence. Grasping the cold black metal bars for balance, she hobbled her way towards the opposite side of the building. She was certain there would be another path there, unless they had magically floated construction materials over that rickety wooden bridge. The splintered wooden planks had snapped in many places, and she could tell parts of it were haphazardly nailed in a pitiful attempt to save the bridge. Still, there was no way concrete or building supplies were getting past that. The guilt of severing the ragged bridge had long since dissipated; the little voice in her head told her any other survivors who made it this far would already be well beyond this point if not already found by the emergency teams. Everyone else would have to find their own way. After all she had suffered through these past few days, it was about time she started worrying about herself.

Her dying flashlight combed over the jagged rubble, casting long, flickering shadows, and she clicked it off. Using the fence as her guide, she followed it to a clearing in the trees that opened itself to the moonlight. She trudged on, discovering a worn dirt path illuminated by the celestial body above. Finally, she had caught a break.

Four hours later, Claire was back in the warmth of her dorm room, cleaned up and ready to go. It had taken her nearly an hour to bandage and disinfect each of her wounds, but it was worth the effort. She rubbed soothing athletic cream deeply into sore joints, and popped a couple of aspirin to take the edge off the pain. Hurriedly sorting through her things while tying her damply washed hair back into a ponytail, Claire shoved her supplies into an old but reliable backpack. Though time was of the essence, she felt no regret at having cleaned herself first; the shower had given her a burst of renewed vigor, even if the dirt and grime had clogged the drain. Zippering the pack tightly, Claire took one last scan of her meager possessions before scrawling a brief and detail-less message to her roommate and rushing out the door. Chris was somewhere out there, waiting for her.

Halfway down the long hallway, she never heard her phone begin ringing.

--

She hurried down the empty hallway, stealth the furthest thought in her mind. A long row of tall arching windows lined the right wall, cool gusts of salty sea air blowing through open panels. The bite of the frigid air nipped at her skin, and she felt an anxious energy building up deep down in her stomach. It was similar to the feeling she'd had on her first undercover assignment. While that one had its own share of obstacles and hurdles, it really was nothing compared to what she was facing now. Then again, at least this time she could shoot anything that moved; better than smiling prettily to attract the attention of some pimply faced science geek. The big business of cloak-and-dagger pharmaceutical espionage was a growth industry expanding exponentially by the day. But at least in those days, she got paid. Now she was working to simply stay alive.

Ada cursed Wesker under her breath for what might have been her hundredth time that day, imagining the feeling of satisfaction she'd get from ramming the barrel of her gun into his mouth. Oh, the delicious look on his pasty white face when he realized she'd finally had his number before she pulled the trigger would satisfy her to no end.

Her daydream was interrupted by a burst of wind blowing through the row of windows. The diaphanous cloth touched lightly against her face, and she pushed it down with the barrel of her gun. The candles flickered against the sudden gusting wind, and she wondered how they managed to stay alight. Perhaps Alfred had Umbrella invest substantial money in candles as an alternative power source, she thought. Alfred hadn't struck her as the prudent type.

Ada pushed down the last curtain in the hallway, and stopped when she heard the soft shuffling of movement around the corner ahead of her. Staying low, she jogged to the corner and listened. Whoever it was, they certainly knew how to move quietly, but the marble floors weren't exactly suited for stealth. It was too quiet to be a Hunter and too fast to be a Licker or one of those one-armed bandits, she thought. It must've been a human. No operative of Wesker's should have infiltrated that far, and Umbrella's soldiers were either dead or infected. Any survivors on the run would've headed away from the central hub, not further in. This was either a competitor looking for information, or an Ashford on the run. Ada cocked her gun as the steps drew closer and waited.

--

The roar of the helicopter was oddly comforting in the nervous haze before a mission. At least, that's what he'd been told by the other guys in the unit. They'd all seen tons of action all around the world, but they were all quite impressed by his tale of survival during the outbreak. He'drecited the whole story over a dozen times since his training began, over six months ago, but that was well in the past. No one asked about it anymore, and he gladly didn't bring it up. Now was the time to earn new stripes with this crew.

O.R.E. training had been grueling, albeit short. Leon had expected at least a full year of training, but after his first week he was nearly ecstatic that it only ran half that time. What they had failed to mention to him when pitching it was that the training was every hour of the day, every day of the week. He slept less than four hours a day, stealing catnaps after his three fifteen-minute meals. The food was horrible, every meal out of a can and salted to such a degree that he couldn't stand to add salt to anything after it was over. Social interaction was pretty much nonexistent, all free time spent napping or studying. The men went about their business in a daze, their only passing conversation during mealtime and field training.

As horrible as it was, though, Leon couldn't argue that he came out of it a stronger man. He was more confident in his skills than he had ever been, the feeling that his entire body was an elite weapon meant to be used for good. One of the other guys had tattooed the Superman logo on his chest afterwards, and Leon couldn't help but agree with the notion. He truly felt stronger than he ever thought he could be, but opted to avoid the tattoo.

"Bundle up people, the temperature down there'll make your worst winter look like a clambake," yelled Campbell. When Leon heard their squad leader barking orders, he imagined an illustration of Campbell included in the definition of "tough as nails". The guy knew his business; if he said it was cold, Leon knew it was going to be an icebox down there. He tightened his wool scarf and pulled his military-issue parka's zipper up all the way. Sweat began to drip down his face, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. He looked over the other men; all stone cold solemn, he did his best to imitate their grim faces of war.

The chopper hadn't yet touched the ground by the time the unit had leapt off and fanned out in every direction. The nine men crouched low, their assault rifles raised at the ready, and constantly moving as one. Leon, as the least experienced, took the left flank. The facility had long been abandoned, but he couldn't fight the urge to shiver. He told himself it was more from the cold than the fear; howling arctic winds tossed snow every which way, cutting down visibility to almost nil. Leon had hoped to use thermal goggles, but the briefing had outlined more internal searches, which would require night vision, as the undead didn't register on thermal. When he had suggested the goggles, the other men laughed at his idea. Apparently he was the only one in the entire unit who had never used night vision in the field, which would be blindingly bright in snowy conditions.

Their point man had the main door open in less than thirty seconds after torching the control panel. He signaled to the group and led them into the dark bowels of Umbrella's Antarctic Research facility #3-C. As Leon ducked his head to enter, he cast one last look at the tundra behind him. Their flanker, a young guy about the same age as Leon, closed the door behind them. He grinned at Leon; though they had known each other only a few days, Leon knew he could trust the man with his life.

"Leon, don't look so serious, man. This will be cake," he said, patting him on the back.

"I know Carlos, but I…" he began. "It just brings back bad memories, you know?"

"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean," Carlos replied. "But this time, you're prepared, right?"

"Kennedy! Olivera! Stop holding hands and get into position," yelled Campbell from up the hall, his brusque voice rattling in the echoes of the building. Leon wondered if they'd all end up paying for that careless indiscretion before long.

--

Spinning around the corner, gun drawn, she came face to face with the last thing she'd ever expect to run into: a _teenager_. Ada had been surprised more than a few times in her life, but this certainly was close to the top. The girl was no more than nineteen, pretty in a traditional kind of way, with determined gray eyes despite her otherwise innocent appearance. Still, the girl held a large handgun by her side, so Ada couldn't let her slide on appearances alone.

"Drop the gun," ordered Ada. The girl complied, raising her hands in the air. "The knife too," Ada added. The girl drew the knife from her shoulder sheath and also dropped it to the ground, the clatter on the marble like a shotgun blast in the quiet.

"Who are you," asked the girl.

"Now, now…the one with the gun asks the questions," cooed Ada. "What's a kid like you doing in a place like this?"

"I'm here because I got caught looking for my brother," the girl answered with a surprising sincerity. Her eyes never left Ada's gun, now held at her hip.

"Bullshit," said Ada. "Take three steps back," she commanded, stepping forward to gather the weapons at the girl's feet. The handgun was heavy; it was a nice piece, a Browning. She looked at it fondly, the memory of her days in Raccoon—

Before she realized what was happening, she felt her gun hand twisted roughly upwards, a sharp elbow shoved into her solar plexus. Ada felt the wind rush from her lungs, the blur of motion continuing its movement towards the other gun she had dropped in the scuffle. Kicking out with her left foot, Ada connected with the falling Browning while using her other leg to wrap the fleeing girl's legs in her own. They both fell to the ground, slamming squarely into hard pavement. Seeing stars in her eyes, Ada forced herself to snap forwards, her body jackknifing back onto her feet and into a crouched position. The young girl crawled groggily towards the Browning, the gun Ada had kicked a good fifteen feet down the hall. This kid had guts, Ada thought, stepping forward with her gun drawn.

"Nice try, kid, but—" Ada began, when she saw the girl suddenly roll over, the knife in both her hands. So she had been playing possum to lure her over…Ada stepped back, planting her foot on the girl's leg to keep her from twisting all the way around. The knife flailed weakly in the girl's hands, unable to move where she wanted, and Ada kicked the girl's wrist, sending the knife skidding along the floor. Ada fired a round that exploded mere inches from the girl's turning head to show she meant business. Panting heavily, Ada couldn't help but smile as she sucked in air.

"Damn, kid, you're at least ten times better than I would've thought," Ada said, surprising herself with the compliment. The girl looked at her with venom in her eyes.

"Are all you Umbrella shitheads always so chatty," the girl asked, rubbing the back of her head gingerly.

"Just the pretty ones," Ada replied. "But I don't work for Umbrella, kid, so don't feel bad about calling those assholes names."

"You're not that much older than me, so stop calling me 'kid'," said the girl, her eyes flaring. Despite earlier fears, the girls' eyes had somewhat softened. Perhaps because she understood she would walk away with her life.

"The one with the gun can call you whatever she likes," Ada said, tapping the gun's barrel against her shoulder to remind her who had the upper hand.

"Fair enough. How about getting off my leg at least?"

Ada seemed to think about it for a moment. "Only because you asked so nicely," she said, stepping off the girl's leg. The girl got to her feet, dusting herself off while keeping a wary eye on Ada's gun.

"So I take it you're not going to gun me down?"

"I don't kill unless I have to. You're dangerous though, girl. I'm going to have to keep an eye out for you."

The girl shrugged. "You were careless."

"What's that," she asked, incredulous.

"Before you picked up my gun, you switched your gun to your off hand. You were more interested in my handgun than me, almost misty eyed. You hefted it for a second and your left hand was off balance for that moment, no longer aimed at me. That's when I made my move."

"Pretty good, girl," Ada said, clearly impressed. "But then, why am I the one with the gun still?"

"True…I probably should've just gone for your throat and killed you."

Ada raised an eyebrow in appreciation. "Believe it or not, that was going to be my advice to you, kid…"

"Maybe when I'm old like you, I'll be able to kill without a problem," the girl said, smirking.

Ada cocked the hammer on her handgun. "You'd best watch yourself, girlie." She laughed once before holstering her gun. "You know, I can't shake the feeling that I know you from somewhere. You been in the business long?"

"Business? What business?"

"Don't tell me…you're not really looking for your brother, are you?"

"I…was. I got caught breaking into Umbrella's Paris branch a few days ago."

Ada laughed again. "Damn girl, you must have the worst luck in the world. This island was overrun just days ago by—"

"Zombies. I know. Not my first time, either," the girl said, taking up her weapons and tucking them away.

"Really…? Interesting."

"Yeah, fascinating. By the way, have you seen a young guy running around? About my height, a few years younger…?"

"Younger than you? I'd imagine any younglings would be zombie chow by now…"

"He knows how to handle himself. He's got reddish hair, a black jacket…?"

"Come to think of it, I did see a Leonardo DiCaprio looking punk with gold Lugers a few hours ago…"

"That's him! Where was he headed?"

"That's your brother? I must say, I don't see a family resemblance at all."

"He's not my brother."

"Is that so? I bet your brother's more of a manly man hunk, right?"

"Um, I guess so," she said, beginning to move down the hallway past Ada. "Thanks for the heads up."

"Maybe you can return the favor…you seen a frail looking guy with a taste for expensive clothes running around?"

"I saw him," she answered. "Bastard took a few potshots at me with a sniper rifle in his house, too."

"Let me guess…an antique?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," she shrugged. "What about his sister? She looks just like him."

"I saw…something along those lines…I guess…"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say, if you find one, you'll find the other too."

"That should make things easier. Have you checked the airport yet?"

"Yeah, but it's locked by some mechanism that requires strange pieces to lower the seaplane."

Ada nodded to herself. "That's a good thing for now," she mumbled.

"How's that good? That's our only way out of here!"

Ada stroked her chin, deep in thought. "Not quite. If you can get that plane in the air, I want you to take it…no need to wait for me," said Ada. "Got it?"

The girl nodded, her eyes full of doubt. "If that's really what you want…"

"It is," Ada replied, cutting her off. "Good luck…Claire," she added, abruptly walking away.

Claire stopped in her tracks, turning back to face Ada. "How-how did…" she began, confused.

"Tell Leon I said 'hey'," Ada called over her shoulder, casting one last glance at the dumbstruck girl before moving on. As she walked away, Ada couldn't help but be pleased at the girl's befuddled expression.

--  
_Note: So I decided to post this part now before I took a much needed vacation later this week (no worries, just a week and I have some more written). I wanted this one to read a bit faster, but there are a couple slow parts like Leon's latest introduction to ORE and so on; hopefully it's interesting enough to be worth reading. I know it's also kind of confusing to have three separate time sequences going on at once, and mixed in, but what the hell...nothing wrong with having faith in the readers. I'm also working on an idea of what exactly the ORE is composed of; I threw Carlos from RE3 in there just for kicks, but it kind of makes sense to me that survivors would be recruited by the head of the ORE since they're proven and have a vested interest in taking down Umbrella. Plus this way I live up to my promise of seeing "familiar faces". See, I'm not a complete liar. _

_Finally flipped through my RE Archives, and it's got an assload of info in there. Lots of typos and a few bad translations, but I recommend it to any RE fanatic out there. Part of me died on the inside when I saw the original bonus costume for Jill in REmake. Schoolteacher Jill would be arguably the greatest thing ever.Oh well, life goes on...I guess. _


	9. Into the abyss

* * *

Flashlights mounted to weapons peered futilely into the deep darkness of the labyrinth. The facility looked more like a bombed out shelter than a high-end research lab, but their intel had suggested that this secret part of the buildings was built decades ago under the guise of a fallout shelter for corporate VIPs. Blueprints were all but impossible to come by, so they'd have to adapt their plan while on the move. They'd move in teams of three, leaving each fireteam in a wing on their own to collect any evidence they could before setting the charges and wiping away the facility. Leon was thankful that Carlos would be in his team, but he wasn't quite sure of the other support team member, who was working on the steel door's locking mechanism. 

"Yo, Billy…something wrong," asked a grinning Carlos. The other man was prying at the panel with a ridiculously large combat knife, bracing his legs against the wall to use more force. Leon and Carlos exchanged a wary look, as both knew Billy was a little too gung ho for his own good.

"You know, there's always the option of a screwdriver," suggested Leon, and Billy shot him a dirty look as he grunted with immense strain. Leon could see muscles bulging, even under the thickness of his parka, and decided his input might be better kept to himself. When the panel finally snapped in two, he gave them a satisfied grin like it had all been worthwhile. Just then, the lights above them flickered to life as the automated door slid open. Apparently fireteam Alpha had achieved their objective well ahead of schedule. Leon's job was to search the smallest wing and cover their entry/exit point. It wasn't terribly exciting stuff, but the trio were the least seasoned of the unit. Graham had suggested that the three work together to get their feet wet, just to get a feel for how an O.R.E. mission was run from beginning to end.

"Nice work, Billiam," joked Carlos. "Maybe if you stomp on that grate and break it, the heat will come back on," he added, shivering from the cold.

If Billy had been upset, he didn't show it. No one really knew much about the guy, and Billy wasn't the type to volunteer information. He had a lot of tattoos on his body, a couple military-related. Leon had noticed them once while in the shower, but mentioning such an observation to the other guys might spawn endless ridicule at his expense, and so he kept quiet.

--

The peaceful quiet was broken when crackling static in her ear announced Wesker's inquiry.

"Ada, have you reached the launch bay yet," he asked sternly, without even a pretense of decorum.

"I'm looking at it as we speak," she answered, a bit put out. Was he going to check on her every five minutes? Even if he didn't exactly trust her, he could at the very least trust her skills.

"Any signs of the Ashfords?"

"None, but I've found clues to suggest they'll be traveling in tandem."

He cleared his throat in that controlled way of his, something less than a cough for most normal people. "I have also found evidence along the same lines, a journal…" he said before trailing off. It wasn't like him to be distracted. She could hear him rifling through pages on his end, probably the pages of the journal he had mentioned.

"What is it?"

"Nothing you can't handle. Just find one of them and our mission will be completed. Take the plane and meet me at the planned coordinates," he ordered.

"The plane is currently…ah, unavailable," she said.

"Very well," he sighed. "You'll swim back to the boat and I'll send someone to retrieve you." He made it sound like she was a misplaced piece of luggage. She opened her mouth to say something about that when she heard the roar of a jet engine coming to life overhead, streaking away from the island.

"You said the plane was non-functional," he stated, an icy edge to his voice.

"It is," she replied, a bit confused. "I'm looking at it right now and it's still grounded. It must be—"

"Another plane…most likely a jet," he finished for her. She really hated it when he did that. "It's no doubt Alfred. Very well, my operatives are prepared for this eventuality and will track him via satellite." His resources continued to impress her, but she couldn't help but take some small degree of satisfaction from his plan hiccupping.

"I'm turning back then," she said curtly, turning away from the bay.

"Ada…there is one more thing I want you to take care of…the Redfield girl is on the island."

"Is that so…?"

"It is…I want you to eliminate her."

"And the research we came for? I still have to set up the proxy device to ransack their database…there might be something left we can use."

"I have taken care of that personally, and obtained Alexia's research journals…among other things. The mission objectives are completed and I will pursue Alfred alone. Finish this last order and I will…forgive your earlier…transgressions."

"Of course," she said, masking the reluctance in her heart. "It will be done."

"For your sake I certainly hope so," said Wesker, closing the connection.

Ada walked over to the unlit control panel, her shaking heart oddly at ease. Despite the thoughts racing through her mind, she knew exactly what she was doing. Two of the three crests were in place above the control panel, the middle one missing. Removing the last piece from her satchel, she slid it into place, activating the power lift system. Wesker and his orders could go to hell for all she cared. As far as Ada was concerned, anyone Wesker hated enough to want dead was her best friend in the world.

--

The hum of motors suddenly returning to life startled them. All three of the men had looked upwards, half expecting an attack from above. They had been told that the power was completely nonfunctional in this wing, but it seemed that wasn't the case. Most of the fluorescent bulbs were dead or broken, but enough worked to fill the room with enough dull white light to turn off their flashlights.

The docking area was musty, the air surprisingly damp despite the climate. A lingering reek of rotten flesh tinged the room, but that was to be expected. They began to move through the maze of crates and boxes systematically, always a weapon raised and ready to protect a squad member's back. Billy took the point as usual, his custom shotgun eagerly looking to spill some blood. Carlos and Leon took the wing and flank, the two nodding to one another before moving on. The ideal fire team consisted of at least four soldiers, but O.R.E.'s resources were strained with all the new recruits Graham was pulling in. And so Carlos and Leon had no choice but to take on extra responsibility, luckily familiar with each other's tendencies and movements by now.

Billy's shotgun bellowed from down the aisle, the sound of smacking wet flesh and splintered wood immediately following it. The other two quickened to a trot, catching up with him. Two zombies lay on the floor, their torsos torn to shreds but their mouths still moving mindlessly. Billy's large knife was already in his other hand, and he stabbed downwards with it through their skulls in rapid succession, pressing his boot down as leverage to pull the blade out of the second one's head.

"Shit man, remind me never to piss you off," said Carlos, wheeling side to side with his rifle, expecting more to come out.

"Just remember to put the toilet seat down," Billy replied, his voice deadpan. Carlos looked in disbelief at Billy cracking a joke. Leon, too, couldn't believe it, nor help laughing. It had been Carlos' first night in training, and he had stumbled towards the bathroom half-asleep. The rest of the bunker awoke to the sound of splashing water and Carlos' cursing. He had swore at every sleeping man in the area, telling each he'd die a lonely death without the love of a good woman if he never learned to put the toilet seat down. The men all laughed at this, even Carlos. All except Billy; roused from sleep, he told Carlos to learn to piss standing up like the rest of them, which made the men laugh even more. Ever since then Billy had been the straight man of Carlos' comedy act without really knowing it. Or so they had thought.

"Four o'clock," yelled Leon. Carlos spun to his right, firing one neat burst into an approaching zombie's face, its brain spurting out of punctured holes in its cheek. Leon began to fire at two more closing off the way they had come in, his carbine chattering hot lead that tore the slow creatures to gory pieces. Leon still hadn't gotten a hang of accurate aiming under pressure, especially with automatic rifles. The only weapon he was remotely close to his peers with under fire was the handgun. His training officer, Lt. Krauser, blamed it on Leon's fondness of American westerns and tried to teach him time and time again the nuances of close quarters combat with a knife. Many of the guys in the squad had taken to calling him Butch Kennedy (which he hated but kept quiet about), but Carlos had leapt at the chance to be his Sundance.

"Up there," pointed Billy, blasting a crawling zombie in half. A steel catwalk loomed above them, the ladder only a dozen yards away. From up there, they would be able to take their time and pick off each and every one of the undead. Billy began to move towards it without waiting for their reply.

--

The seaplane was but a small dot in the night sky, disappearing beyond the line of the horizon. Ada watched it from the shore, a pleased smile on her usually pouty lips. Wesker would kill her for this, she thought, and for the first time in a long time, the thought didn't bother her in the slightest.

A cool sea wind came in along the surf, the shuffling waves gently reaching for the shore. Looking back, she heard nothing, saw nothing. The island was completely silent. Wesker's Gestapo goon squad was long gone, and everything was oddly peaceful. Dim lights dotted the mountainside buildings, and she couldn't help but be reminded by a resort she had once visited. So this was another. Another tranquil landscape ruined by Umbrella's ambitions, another piece of nature destroyed by their biological machinations.

The stillness of the night was broken by the whirl of a boat motor in the distance. It was coming in quickly, a small craft with a big engine, probably not meant to be silent. She heard the motor cut off, and knew whoever it was would row the rest of the way. So not a complete amateur, at least. Ada collected the last of her things, zipping the bag closed, and crawled atop a sand dune. Through the heavy green hues of her night vision goggles, she could make out a single-manned raft slowly approaching the island. Whoever it was, he was lucky the waves were on his side tonight. Or perhaps he had accounted for them. She thought it over, and her earlier assessment might have been a bit harsh. After all, no living person, much less a guard, should have been on that section of the beach. She took more than a bit of pride at being an unplanned variable in every assignment she undertook.

The dark shape anchored the boat now against the craggy rocks of a sheer cliff. She assumed from the size of the shape that it was a man, but she couldn't be sure from this distance. Adjusting the lens of her goggles, she was able to zoom in for a closer look, catching the ruggedly handsome features of a determined young man. Ah, the other Redfield, but a bit thinner than Wesker's stock photo. He must've come when he heard his sister was in trouble; an interesting turn of events. Ada knew it was truly Chris Redfield that he despised, not the sister, and that he only wanted her dead to cause Chris pain. So one of Wesker's most hated enemies was only a step behind him now…

She heard a loud splash in the water, and looked up, expecting to see a dangling rope over a broken body. Instead, she saw him still hanging up there, and could hear faint cursing. Apparently he had only dropped his field gear after failing to strap it to his person. She shook her head in disbelief. Perhaps he really was just an amateur.

--  
_Note: I know this chapter is a bit short, but I have the next 5 chapters already written (no lie!). I haven't really had a chance to go over and edit this section, so please forgive any typos and spacing issues you see. I threw Billy into the story for a small role, and made him a little more anxious than the one we saw in Zero. I tried to throw a few more references to Leon's time in training, and it came out more naturally as a buddy vignette that shed light on Carlos and Billy, so I went with it. Hope you like it._


	10. From the shadows

* * *

He couldn't be sure what the gender of the undead was, but whatever it was, it was dead twice over. The last zombie in the large room collapsed in a neat pile, brain matter congealing in the hole at the back of its head. It was amazing to Leon how rapidly they decomposed, especially without sustenance. It barely resembled a humanoid if not for its arms and legs. He idly wondered if their stiffness was also a result of the frigid temperatures; these undead seemed to move slower than others he'd seen. 

Carlos calmly reloaded his rifle, tapping his fresh cartridge against the butt of his rifle as usual. It was something he always did on the field, to remove any possible dirt from the clip, but at this point it was either habit or superstition. Leon knew he had been a freedom fighter of some sort in his other life, but this was top of the line equipment funded by the US government. No second hand weapons here, and no dirt in the magazine.

"Alright, let's get back down there," said Billy, eager to use his shotgun again. He had asked Carlos twice to let him take some shots with the rifle, but Carlos had told him that was the price he paid for taking the shotgun. Billy fumed after each rejection, fingering the handle of his knife more than once. Leon looked at him now with skepticism.

"This isn't a field trip," Leon said sternly, surprising himself. Even Carlos was taken aback by his assertiveness. Billy said nothing, brushing Leon aside as he stepped onto the ladder. He was just under the floor of the catwalk when they heard it; something rattled beneath them, clicking against the sheet metal.

The creature must have had more patience than in any other BOW they'd ever encountered. It must've come over when the first rounds were fired, and waited within the shadowed outcropping of the catwalk. Billy reached for the shotgun tucked in his back, but the monster was far faster, launching an elastic tongue towards him. He turned away, avoiding the instant kill attack aimed at his heart, and took the brunt of the damage in his shoulder instead. Falling from the ladder, he reached out and grabbed the tongue in an attempt to pull the Licker down with him. His teammates above were running towards the ladder when they heard his panicked scream, the barbed tendrils of its lashing tongue tearing his hand to bloody shreds.

Billy slammed into the pavement below, knocking the wind from his body. His vision blurred, and he suspected he had a concussion. He tried to roll to his side and felt the agonizing burn of broken ribs jabbing into internal organs. He screamed again, a bloodcurdling cry beyond human suffering, as he rolled once more so his chest rested on the ground. Leon circled around the ladder's opening, looking for a shot on the creature. He only saw a blur of dark motion as the Licker dropped noiselessly from its perch to the ground below, atop Billy's back. Carlos looked straight down the ladder and saw the creature atop Billy, its claws tearing his flailing arms apart and its corrosive drool dissolving the skin about the back of his neck as he howled in pain. It slowly wrapped its grotesque tongue around his throat, the razor sharp barbs of the appendage digging harshly into his flesh, before it suddenly retracted, severing his head in one swift motion.

Carlos had seen a good amount of blood in his day, more than most soldiers, but he'd never seen so much blood spray out of one body in all his life. Buckets of Billy's blood shot across the room from his neck, the red geyser spurting his body's life fluid across pallets and crates stacked on high. Without thinking, he began to fire his rifle at the monster below. Leon's machine gun soon joined the fray, and by the time they were done, the Licker was laying in an ocean of blood in two pieces atop their squad mate. The two reloaded quickly, their eyes nervously scanning the dark areas of the rafters above them before quickly descending the ladder.

Reaching the bottom, Leon kicked at the Licker's upper half. Mostly unrecognizable from the hail of bullets, it was still unlike any Licker he had even seen. A patient hunter? Acidic drool? A barbed tongue? If there were more of these, the rest of the team needed to know. He reached for his communicator before Carlos stopped him.

"What are you doing? They need to know about those things," Leon said.

"We got enough problems of our own," replied Carlos, his accent thickening. Leon knew this only happened to his friend in times of great duress, and so he froze, reaching for his gun. Seemed Carlos had cause to worry. From the shadows emerged four jet black Lickers, stalking purposefully and silently towards them.

--

Dark eyes watched his every movement. Like murky clouds against graying skies, the shifty pupils never left his person. He strode confidently down each corridor, appearing to be well trained and efficient. His marksmanship especially stood out. The majority of his shots were headshots or torso hits, and he rarely needed more than two rounds for each walking corpse.

He snuck furtively by another of those floating camera devices, and Ada couldn't help but be further impressed by these Redfields. She had heard great things about the Ashfords, but considering her time on the island, she had yet to see anything remarkable about them, save their expensive tastes and pampered living. The Redfields were simple, efficient, reliable; sort of like a truck whereas the Ashfords were the fancy sports car with all the frills and half the substance. Then again, Ada would never be seen publicly in a truck, so maybe the Ashfords weren't all that bad.

The elder Redfield was quite the survivalist. Minimal equipment and still acquiring what he needed on the field. He had struggled against that worm thing in the cave, nearly to a point where she might have to intervene, but he luckily found its brain with his last few rounds. In its death throes, the creature spit out Rodrigo, the guard who had helped capture the other Redfield and later released her. Ada had met him once at an Umbrella function when she had been dating John, and she wasn't fond of him at all. The man had asked her outright if she was a prostitute, claiming that no woman that beautiful would waste time with a geek like John. While much of his claim was true, Ada couldn't help but feel the man was on to her scheme, so she made up a lie about Rodrigo making a pass at her and refusing to take no for an answer. John pulled some strings and had Rodrigo moved to a faraway island facility, and the head security officer they hired at the Residence in his place was a complete assclown. No doubt John wished for Rodrigo's experience and skills once the virus hit the scienctist core, and now Ada found herself crossing paths with him again. Not too sadly, though, this was the last time, as she checked Rodrigo's fallen body. Once certain he was dead, she fired a silenced bullet through his forehead at point blank range. Even if the airborne virus had dissipated, she was taking no chances. Fate had a funny way of screwing with her when she let her guard down.

--

"Hot damn, this is some shit we're in," whispered Carlos, his back pressed against Leon's. The creatures had slowly surrounded them, showing more and more cunning. Now in position, the creatures simply crouched, crooking their heads in a grotesquely animal way. It was only then that Leon realized that these creatures, like their lesser versions, were nearly blind. As Carlos opened his mouth to say something again, he felt Leon's gloved hand come over it. He immediately understood. The two stood like statues, waiting for the creatures to move again. After many breathless minutes, they began to slowly crawl again, this time away from the two. One came within inches of Leon's leg, and he fought the reflexive gasp that threatened to escape from his throat.

The nearest creature was about two yards away when Leon's radio crackled to life.

"Hey shitheads, where's your update? Over," sneered Bellagio, the abrasively cocky demolitions expert.

At the noise, the creatures wheeled in their tracks, screeching as they rose up on hind legs, and began running towards the two. With a lopping gait, the upright Lickers resembled lanky sprinters, and moved much faster than when crawling. Leon and Carlos both had their rifles up and ready, blazing at full auto and knocking back the nearest creature. It fell into a heap, tripping up the two Lickers behind it. The two heard their rifles click in unison, and Leon immediately dropped his rifle, reaching for his handgun. Carlos dove and rolled towards Billy's fallen shotgun over ten feet away. Raising the pistol, Leon realized his friend would not reach it in time, and began yelling to attract the attention of the one creature still standing, who now veered towards him. He steadied his gun hand, waiting for the calm to come over him, knowing he wouldn't get many shots before it covered the short distance between them.

His first shot was far too low, almost six inches lower than where he had wanted. Knowing that he'd never be able to raise it and aim in time with the recoil, he let the gun's barrel instead drop, waiting for his shot to come. The next round smacked soundly into the bend of the Licker's leg, and it spun wildly out of control as it fell to the ground. Running to its side, Leon stepped on the back of its neck and fired a round through its exposed brain, splattering dark gore across the gray pavement.

Leon heard movement to his side and spun, firing blindly with his handgun at the two creatures coming at him. The six shots he got off all missed badly, ricocheting off the concrete walls behind them. The low growl of Billy's shotgun shook the room as Carlos fired the last of its rounds into the two, rendering them piles of fleshy mush. The two began to reload wordlessly, nodding thanks to one another. Leon reached for his radio.

"Listen up everyone; Coen's down for good, and there's an evolved advanced Licker in the facility," Leon said into the radio. "These things are smarter than any I've ever seen and are patient. They also hunt in packs. I repeat, they hunt in packs. Over." He clicked it off, sighing as he once again saw the bloody remains of their squad mate.

"We read you loud and clear, Kennedy. Switch over to silent radio mode if that's the case. Don't want any sudden noises to attract these things. Over," said their leader calmly. Leon and Carlos exchanged a tired look before heading back towards the door. They cast one last glance at Billy's bloody corpse, wondering what secrets he had taken to the grave with him, before moving on.

--

"Captain, Coen is dead, according to Kennedy," said the radioman. Campbell stared at him with cold, flinty eyes before nodding.

"Dammit; it's to be expected, but I didn't think anything could kill that kid."

"Kennedy said there's a new breed of Lickers hunting in packs, and also that they're extremely patient."

"Have everyone switch to silenced automatic and tell them to be ready for groups then, but no explosives along the main hallway unless cleared by me. Also advise team leaders to have sonic grenades ready to deploy."

"Yes sir," saluted the younger man, quietly bowing out of the room to make the call.

Campbell rubbed his eyes tiredly. It wasn't fatigue that clouded his head, but this whole damned mess. Trying to wrap one's head around the scale of this disaster, this conspiracy, could make someone want to put a bullet through it eventually. But there would be a time for that later. Now was the time to complete the mission, he thought, leaning into the shadows to furtively slide a half filled vial into his side pack. Once he was certain no one had seen, he went back to meet his men. His most trusted soldier, Jack, came over to him, that obscenely large and curved knife in his hands. Jack treated that knife better than most men treated their women, it seemed.

"Everything ok, Captain," he asked brusquely. Though he meant to be sympathetic, there was little room in this hard man to even try playing nice.

"Everything's fine, Jack," he muttered, staring his old friend in the eyes. Jack grasped his shoulder and shook it confidently.

"It's for the best, Bruce," his friend assured him, patting him on the back. But looking into his eyes, Campbell couldn't help but think his old comrade knew something he didn't. And maybe something he shouldn't.

--

He was uncharacteristically panting when she got into contact with him. His breathing was ragged, as if he had strained himself recently. Ada couldn't help but grin at his obvious discomfort.

"Bad news, Wesker. The girl got the plane going when I was searching for her and she made it off the island."

"I know. She is on the Umbrella research base in Antarctica."

"The Arctic?" She was glad Wesker couldn't see her smirk; the tracer she had put on the plane after bringing it online gave her the coordinates hours ago. The image of his icy veneer shivering in the cold was also rather delightful.

"Yes. This is very disappointing, Ada. Your failure might cost me this mission."

"I thought it was completed? By the way, have you run into Alexia yet?"

He paused, a beat longer than usual. "Just now..."

Ada heard something in his voice and leapt on it. "So you have her in custody?"

"No, I was interrupted by a—"

"Failure? Tsk, tsk Albie, that's not like you at all…"

"I will not tolerate insubordination, Ada."

"Things change. You gotta roll with it," she said, grinning broadly. This was better than anything she could remember in a long time.

"Alexia's virus has incubated and completely manifested. She is beyond capture at this point."

"Sounds like you're throwing in the towel."

She heard a sharp intake of air from his end, and when he spoke, his words were coated with frost. "I would choose my next words _very_ careful, if I were you, Ada."

"I, ah…oh, look at the time, and I forgot to mention the best part, Wesker: Your favorite Redfield is headed your way, looking for his sister," she lied. "Nothing stronger than the bonds of family," she mused playfully. She knew family, or any bond of loyalty, bothered Wesker to no end.

"Every bond has a weakness, a secret to breaking it," he said matter-of-factly. "You just have to know what to look for." Dispensing his usual nugget of evil bastard wisdom, Ada knew his seething anger had passed from her and rested squarely on the shoulders of the Redfields.

--  
_Note: Ok, I'll admit it...I had a lot of fun killing Billy there. Nothing against him so much as it was my raw hatred of RE:Zero. The idea of a super advanced Licker wasn't planned, it just came to me as I was writing the scene. Originally I had him fending off the Licker with his knife, and Leon taking something from it (which we see in RE4), but the image of a barbed tongue slicing his hand and throat to pieces was just too delightful to ignore. I did, however, tone it down from what I had originally, where it sucks his brains out of his eye socket as its acidic drool melts his face off. Guilty pleasures should only go so far, right? _


	11. Second Interlude

--

The room is dark, sterile. It reeks of medical supplies, cleaners and expired band-aids. She huddles in the corner, the pounding fear throbbing in her temples. The first in over three months, her most recent nightmare seemed to make up for lost time, and with a vengeance. Rocking back and forth on her haunches, she waits for the fear to slip away, for the calm to return. The nightmares had at first been so simple, at least as simple as escaping flesh eating monsters and an unstoppable juggernaut could be. But her latest fever dream had seemingly raged within her own body, the terror and pain of something unspeakable rampaging behind the walls of her flesh.

She had turned 15 scarcely two months earlier. In addition to the changes of her body, she could see the doctors treating her differently. They didn't hang on her every word, her every action, anymore. They didn't double check locks on doors. They didn't appear nervous in her presence, only listless and bored. Even the large mirror panel covering one side of her room somehow seemed emptier. Sherry would have bet there was never more than one person behind there anymore, and she would have been right. Only Linda's visits hadn't decreased; still the woman was Sherry's most frequent visitor. No matter the reason, Sherry was gladdened by these changes. The doctors had expanded her room, giving her an entire wing within the facility to roam freely around in. With at least a semblance of privacy now, she could feel the onset of womanhood hounding her every step.

Linda had gotten her some books on the subject, and Sherry began to be slowly pulled into the world that had drawn in her parents so thoroughly. Sherry devoured four textbooks and various medical journals in her first week, ravenous for the information they held. Linda began to show a bit of parental pride in Sherry's aptitude for biomedical science, and often smuggled in more advanced books on the subject, some filched right off her colleagues' shelves. She had once confided in the young girl that the other doctors were afraid of Sherry someday taking their jobs, and doing it better. Sherry couldn't hide the smile from her face at the praise despite all her long months of practice.

All that is little consolation now, though. Even with her understanding of the intricacies of human physiology, she is still a young girl suffering from night trembles and a longing, lonely heart. She cradles her chin against her knees for a long time before finally standing and leaving the small examination room. It is more instinct than anything that makes her creep across the narrow hallway, her brain knowing that no one else is awake or watching her anymore. Still, she finds some solace in acting like a child, even if she is no longer one.

She returns to her sleeping quarters (or, as Linda constantly calls it, 'her room'), the cool climate comforting now, the sweat-soaked sheets dry. She thumbs through the small pile of letters from Leon and Claire, postcards and Claire's usual twenty-questions spread throughout the letter. Sherry could tell Claire wasn't getting her replies by the frequency of her questions, her growing concern. Furthermore, she knew the letters were being screened, as they came minus the envelope. It was a little after that when she began to receive the postcards from exotic lands all over the world. The pile of letters doesn't comfort her. She pushes them aside, getting under the sheets and hugging the pink vest tightly. It was worn out, the smell a bit moldy, but there was nothing in the world that comforts her better. As the world drifts away, she soon falls asleep.

--

The meeting had been running for five minutes, the same way every other meeting had run for its first five minutes, the same thing every week for over a year. The observer detailed the minutes of the last meeting, took attendance, and so forth. All simple formalities, all routine.

"Anything new to add to the agenda," asked the moderator seated by the head of the table. No one responded.

"So still no significant change?"

"No change at all…how much longer do we intend to continue this colossal waste of time?"

"Looking at the map of her genetic makeup here," pointed a scientist at a computer simulated series of arcs and graphs, "it's in my opinion that we will likely see zero change, even in the coming months."

"I'm inclined to agree," piped in another scientist. Others nodded in agreement.

"So what do we do with her then," asked the man seated at the head of the table. Tired, he held his spectacles in one hand as he rubbed his eyes with the other. Everyone knew this was his pet project; any failure to produce results meant the past two years was a complete wash. Would it be prudent to continue on this dead end path in the hopes of finding at least something of scientific value? That was the quandary men of any profession inevitably faced.

"It might be a good idea to consider the best interests of the girl," suggested Linda. "For once," she added under her breath.

A silence fell over the room. While most of the other meetings had revolved around the experiments and research (or lack thereof), lately they had centered around the welfare of Sherry. Especially when Linda had a chance to speak.

"I'm not against that at all," replied the leader, rubbing at his mouth. "What do you suggest?"

"Releasing her into the care of relatives, perhaps," answered Linda. "Sherry has told me of family in one of the Dakotas, farmers of some sort."

"That's not in the file," said another doctor, rifling through a stack of papers. He seemed happy to finally use his brain for something. "Yes, just like I thought…nothing documented here at all."

"Like I said, it's what she told me, and in my notes. I'm sure with a little pressing, I can find their exact names and address."

The man seated at the head of the table stroked his chin now, weighing the option before speaking. "Legal ramifications?"

"The girl has never officially been signed over to the state for asylum; it seems whomever decided to conduct this research on this girl had little concern for the legality of it all," said a slickly dressed middle aged man.

"Which would be further complicated should some family members suddenly get her back…"

"Exactly."

"But they might be the best choice. Just think of it, a hillbilly farmer family isn't going to ask questions about custodial rights. For all they know, we've been giving Sherry free medical care out of our own concerns for someone we believed to be an orphan."

"This _is_ America; they will be looking for a chance to sue."

"We could always trick them into signing a waiver, disguising it as a medical claim bill…in effect, they'd think they were saving themselves money by doing so…"

"My god, listen to you people! What's wrong with you," yelled Linda, suddenly slamming her fist against the table. "Am I the only reasonable one here?"

"It was your idea, Linda. And we're just discussing the best options for Sherry like you wanted…"

"How is covering your own asses best for her?"

"It would be best to not leave any type of paper trail, and it's not as if we were the ones who brought Sherry here illegally."

"That's right; I'm not about to risk jail time for something I had no control over…" said a woman from the corner. She was well past middle aged, and Linda suspected the kids in her neighborhood feared her as a witch of some sort. The woman, like the other scientists, had never cared for a child in all her life.

"What, you never asked yourselves how she got here," Linda asked sarcastically.

"And yourself, doctor? Would you accept your burden of responsibility?"

"I-I…I would be willing to take in Sherry, if that's what you mean. Adopt her."

The table sat in silence, everyone staring open mouthed at the woman's offer.

"Are you aware that doing so would only further muddy the legal waters? This is a girl we have no right to claim, and now you want to take her home with you?"

"I'm saying I accept my role in what's gone on here," replied Linda. "Unlike the rest of you."

"The girl _is_ rather precocious," commented one of the scientists. "She's definitely inherited her father's aptitude for science…"

"And her mother's looks," said another, a bit too appreciatively. Linda cast him a dirty look and he shrank away. She made note to keep an eye on him.

"It would be best to nurture her interests, to help her develop socially at the very least," she suggested, calming down. "And it wouldn't hurt if some of you got involved with her life."

"We all see more of the subject now that she's so interested in science; she allows us to openly test her and collect samples that way."

"I mean more than just prodding her with swabs and needles, Warren. Getting involved is showing an interest in what interests her, getting her to communicate better."

"We're not her parents, Linda."

"But we are the closest thing she has now. I say we either commit to raising her ourselves until she's 18, or cut her loose so that her family can."

"I think we're perhaps getting a bit ahead of ourselves here," said the moderator, turning to a page in the log. "In our original outline, we agreed on a minimum three years of observation, with a window for five years. Which gives us a little over a year to finish the initial projection. Does everyone still wish to abide by these guidelines?"

No one answered. They sat, stonily silent, everyone looking to another for an answer, refusing to meet eyes.

"Very well, then. We shall continue as planned," said the head scientist, exchanging a knowing look with the lawyer. Both knew that within the next year, Sherry would have to be disposed of, to protect both the person who had her brought to the facility, and those seated at the table. It was for the best.

--  
_Note: The beginning of this interlude was an attempt at something I used to do when I was younger, and that is to write in the present tense. Something I had always done as a kid and teachers told me not to do, I always thought it pulled the reader into the action better. I decided to try it, but I will admit, it did feel awkward. Especially when throwing in flashbacks and so forth. I had originally intended Sherry to feel completely isolated and withdrawn, but she strikes me as strong enough to make the best of things and wear a brave face. I really enjoy writing in the "roundtable" format, with more than a couple of people talking. I especially liked the legal jargon talk, as a big Law and Order fan and all. My favorite bit is the Lolicon scientist appreciating Sherry's looks. I'm probably in the minority, but I thought Annette was really quite attractive. Minus the homicidal tendencies, of course. _


	12. Reunion

* * *

"Leon!" she yelled over the crowd, running over to him. She hugged him before he saw her, a warm, albeit brief, pressing of her body against his back. Flustered, he ran his free hand through his hair to keep his cool. She laughed heartily. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, her happiness obvious with her playful grin. She went to grab one of his bags, but he already had them all on his shoulders. 

"Good to see you too, Claire," he said. The buckle from his bag was digging painfully into his back now, but he'd be damned if he let a woman carry his baggage. No matter how tough she was. The international airport was loud, the din of travelers, with all their tearful greetings and farewells, bordering on deafening. Leon had seen riots with less noise. She again reached for one of his bags, but he deftly pulled it away.

"Dammit, at least let me give you a hand," she said, put off by his stubbornness.

"Don't be upset that you're still slower than me," he replied with a wink.

"Oh, it must be that secret agent training of yours," she shot back, fluttering her eyes dreamily as she clasped her hands by her left cheek. "You're so _mysterious_, Mister Supah Agent Kennedy," she joked in a schoolgirl voice. Leon felt his cheeks burning.

"I was a gentleman before a super secret agent, and that's why you can't help carry my bags," he reluctantly admitted.

"In that case, good sir…very well," she said, bowing deeply with a flourish. Riding the escalator, he couldn't help but examine every little thing he saw, absorbing every inch of the unfamiliar place. And yet, he constantly caught her looking at him, her warm gray eyes shining brightly.

It had been a long time since they had seen each other, well over a year. They had gotten back in touch via email, Claire on the run and looking for her brother, while Leon was suffering through his O.R.E. training. Claire had eventually realized why Leon had acted the way he did on that last day together, and she had forgiven him long ago. He had never apologized, and was glad he didn't have to. Claire was sharp enough to figure out the whole story. Pushing her away had saved her and given her the freedom she needed to find her brother.

And now they were back together for the first time. His hair, once reddish brown, had turned a dark blonde after months under the unforgiving sun. He had lost the last bits of baby fat, and his body was now hard sculpted muscle with an almost pantherish confidence to his stride. Claire, too, walked with a stronger sense of self, and of her own womanhood. She had gained a few pounds, but most men would agree in all the right places. Her build was still tight and athletic, not as slim and wiry as before. Her hair was curlier, unkempt, almost wild as it fell about her face and shoulders. Not the no-nonsense, tomboy ponytail he had remembered. Leon liked it. He caught himself more than once looking at her appreciatively.

"What is it," she asked coyly, her darkly lush features flustering him.

"Ah, I, uh, just had a hankering for fish and chips," he said. "That's all," he added lamely.

She sighed. "I guess they don't give the James Bond 'femme fatale handling' training in the first six months, huh?"

--

"Actually, there _is_ something I've been meaning to ask you," he said, looking intently as his ketchup covered chip before biting into it.

"They call potato chips 'crisps' here," she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. "And elevators are 'lifts'. Flashlights are—"

"No, no, I'm being serious, Claire," he interrupted, an urgency creeping into his voice. "I know it's probably been bothering you too…"

"Alright, then," she said, putting down her food. "What is it?"

"Sherry," he said, saying the name on both their minds. "Have you heard from her at all?"

"You know I haven't," she replied sadly. "It's not even an option with the way I've been moving around, to get a letter. And so I just send her as much as I can, but I can't help asking her the same questions, over and over. It's sort of frustrating, having a one-sided conversation, you know? It's like talking to a brick wall, or a dead phone, or—"

"I know, I know," he said, cutting her off. "No need to illustrate the point for me. I've gotten replies, but here, look at them," he began, reaching into his bag and drawing out a neat stack of papers held tightly by a rubber band. "They're so…generic, so lifeless. I know living with distant relatives isn't an amusement park, but these just don't sound right."

Claire wiped the grease from her fingers with a napkin before taking the letters eagerly. She flipped through them, and after just a cursory glance, agreed with Leon's sentiments.

"I gotta agree with you," she said, holding one up for him to see. "Just from looking at the sentence structure, the vocabulary…it's not right. Kids that age learn, they grow…they don't use the same words over and over. This reminds me of someone writing like they think a child _should_ think, not as they really do think."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying these letters weren't written by Sherry."

--

He thought over her words for a long moment. "You're not serious?"

"Very much so," she replied, thumbing through the bunch. "They might not all be lies, but I suspect someone is filtering out what they want us to hear and rewriting them. Trying to stay 'in character', though by doing so, they inadvertently told us these aren't from Sherry. Or at least, not completely from Sherry. There's someone in the middle here mucking things up."

"Why go through all that trouble?"

"I don't know. Judging from her family's past, I wouldn't put it past them to have more than one nutjob in the Birkin family tree," she said.

"Claire!" he said sternly, struggling to keep a serious face. She looked at him warily, her brow arching, expecting a lecture. He wasn't in the mood to give one, however. "If someone wanted to hold her, why put up the pretense of correspondence? Why not just go into hiding?"

"So we wouldn't worry, we wouldn't ask questions," she replied. "Is there a return address on the letters," she asked, turning the pile over in her hands.

"On the envelopes…back home," he said, burying his forehead in his hands. He couldn't believe he left them across the Atlantic.

"Shit," she cursed. "Wait, I got an idea," she added a moment later, grabbing her jacket. He stuffed the last bit of fried fish into his mouth before tossing a few bills on the table and following her.

--

The computer was state of the art, even if the building wasn't. A large flatscreen monitor showed an extensive array of numbers, data, and streaming video. Leon watched in quiet awe as the young woman's deft fingers danced across the keyboard.

"You must be an awesome pianist," Leon said, amazed.

"I had my day," said the woman, smiling wryly at him. She was a couple years older than him, and unbelievably beautiful. Piercing blue eyes stared out from behind dark, thin-rimmed glasses, contrasting nicely with her creamy white skin. Long brown hair ran down her back and spilled about her high cheekbones, her features angular but still smoothly subtle. She wore a loose dress shirt, the top two buttons undone with the sleeves rolled up over her elbows, and a short gray skirt over lithe, shapely legs. Leon couldn't help but gawk at her.

"It's too bad I never got to see you play," he said sheepishly, leaning deliberately against a wobbly stack of books. Claire watched him in curious amusement as she nonchalantly pushed the bottom part of the stack with her foot, putting Leon off balance and sending him crashing unceremoniously to the floor. He quickly leapt up, dusting himself off and running a hand coolly through his hair in a feeble attempt to salvage his dignity. The two women burst out laughing.

"Everything alright in there, kids," called Claire's brother, Chris. They were in his makeshift London apartment, trying to trace what part of the address they had, mainly a city and state name. The comely woman's name was Jill, and Leon wondered if she and Chris had something going on. He couldn't help but envy Chris when he found out the two of them and another person was living there together. Leon wondered if this third person was as attractive as Jill. And if so, he decided he'd ask if they had room for a fourth. Apparently Claire had only stayed with them a couple days and had her own place.

"Alright, let's get back to work," said Jill, bringing back up the satellite uplink. She continued to comb through aerial photos of the region, looking for something similar to what Sherry's letters described. Claire helped Leon pick up the atlases and maps he had spilled, suppressing her giggles. Of course Leon didn't notice this, his gaze longingly on Jill's supple neck, the curve and nape of her—

"Leon," Chris yelled from the other room. "Come here, I want you to meet someone," he said.

Stacking the last of the reference books on the table, he broke his leering routine long enough to head through the door to the front. Chris was standing beside one of the biggest men Leon had ever seen, a grizzly bear of a man with a comically bad toupee. Leon's hand disappeared in the large man's grasp as he shook it.

"This is Barry Burton," he said. "Barry, this is Leon Kennedy, of Raccoon City."

"The guy your sister saved? Nice to meet you, man," greeted Barry. Leon had expected his voice to be a booming amp, but it was a soft voice, almost gentle. It was only after a few beats that Leon caught on to what he had said.

"Saved? What are you talking about?" He could hear Claire laughing again, standing in the doorway at his back.

"Sorry, babe…creative license. You know how it is," she smirked. Chris joined in the laughter, until he saw Claire take Leon's hand and guide him quietly into one of the bedrooms. Then he scowled.

"He seems like a nice kid," Barry said, seeing the distress on his friend's face. "He reminds me of you when you were that age."

"He's completely clueless!" whispered Chris loudly.

"Like I said, he reminds me of you when you were that age," Barry said, winking. "Maybe that's what she sees in him." Hanging up his jacket and the itchy hairpiece he hated so dearly, he removed the three guns from his person; his trusty Python from his back hip holster, the .38 revolver from his ankle, and the .22 Webley wrist-strapped pistol he had picked up a month earlier. He loved all his guns, but he knew the spring release of that small gun would probably save his life someday. He went to the kitchen and began to clean his guns yet again. Chris had once joked that Barry cleaned those guns more than his body, and Jill had to agree after the time they spent living together that Chris was probably right.

--

The narrow alleyways and cobblestone streets made travel slower than the team had anticipated. The tail had kept on the pair's trail easily enough, but coordinating a squad of 15 men in an unfamiliar area was proving far more difficult than their leader had anticipated.

"Breach team is in place, sir," said his lieutenant briskly. The man had a promising career ahead of him, but he needed more of an aggressive mean streak to succeed in this line of work.

"Good. Have Wachowski and Stephens up on the opposite rooftops to set up a crossfire."

"Wojo? Sir, are you sure you want him as one of the snipers?"

"He's the one closest to the position point and the one most familiar with those rifles." Memories of their former ace sniper still lingered, who they had found with a bullet through the back of his head six months earlier when pursuing a UCBS soldier gone rogue.

"If you say so, sir."

"I know you miss Nicholai," he said, a hint of regret in his words. "But we have more than enough firepower and experience to take out a small group of holed up and washed out police officers."

"Of course, sir."

The months of tailing and chasing had worn thin on him. He had been brought in only two months earlier, two months after their targets had escaped the squad's previous leader and left him in the dust. It was a ragtag bunch, battle worn but unfamiliar with squad tactics and movements. A concentrated, focused assault could end things quickly. Luckily, his latest employer's bank account and clout had bought them certain liberties in the area, and civilian casualties were of little concern. Still, funding was tight enough that the men were forced to use guns most would consider antiques and few soldiers would ever use on the field.

"ETA for the breach team?"

"Three minutes, sir. Sniper squad is reaching their position now as we speak."

"Have them hold fire and keep their scopes off the ledge. I don't want the sun reflecting off them," he ordered, looking around them. "We're exposed enough as it is with these narrow streets."

"Yes, sir." Once again he marveled at his leader's foresight. There was no way they were missing them this time.

--  
_Writer's note: I've actually been wondering if I should change the title of this story, as Ada will take a backseat for the next couple chapters which revolve around the STARS team. Got a lot of cameos planned, and they'll impact the story down the road. I have this whole piece plotted out, so expect bunches of updates in the near future. The writing has felt a bit awkward of late, especially my sentence structures. Been reading the works of Robert E. Howard lately, and I think his work is simply amazing. He basically created the swords and sorcery genre with Conan, and his prose is simply fantastic and beyond any thing else I've read in recent memory. I highly recommend all of you to check his work out. _


	13. Ambush in Europe

--

Pulling him into a room off to the side, Leon felt a strange urge to resist, and pulled away from her soft grip a bit too suddenly. Hurt eyes stared up at him.

"What is it," he asked her finally.

"There's something I have to tell you," Claire answered slowly, doubt swimming in her cloudy eyes. "It's about someone you knew…"

"Who?"

As Claire opened her mouth to reply, Jill yelled to them from the other room. Leon looked at Claire expectantly, waiting for her to finish, but Claire was already hurrying out of the room. And though he couldn't be sure, he would have sworn that she looked relieved.

--

"Boss man says no scopes," said Stephens, setting down the radio against the lip of the ledge.

"What the fuck? Why not," asked Wachowski.

"Says the distance is short enough and the sun's glare could give away our position."

"Jesus, those guys don't know shit about this shit," whined the younger man. "Here we are, boiling in the open sun, dressed in fucking all black combat suits, and they're sitting in an _air conditioned_ van while barking orders."

"Yeah, but they don't get to shoot anybody."

"Ha, that's true," he said, laughing as he reached into his belt's pouch.

"Hey, you're not really using that thing, are you? The range is less than fifteen yards," said Stephens, watching his comrade attach a small black laser scope to the backbone of the rifle. "And it's daytime."

"Call me superstitious, but I never miss with this thing," replied Wachowsi, steadying his rifle on the ledge.

"Hey, hey, boss man said to keep the pieces out of view."

"Boss man can suck it for all I care. If we're sitting up here and sweating our asses off, I wanna get a look at just who it is we're aiming at. Unless you brought the binoculars," he said, knowing the older man was loathe to carry the full equipment bag up all those rickety stairs.

"No, I didn't. Just like you didn't."

"My apathy must be rubbing off on you," said the younger man, grinding out his cigarette against the black tar rooftop. "Too bad my marksmanship hasn't. I ever tell you about the time I put a bullet through a grape from four kilometers with a mountain crosswind?"

"Yes, you did. Only last time you told that story, it was three kilometers and in the pouring rain."

Wachowski had indeed made a shot once that all snipers had dreamed of. However, what he never told anyone was that he wasn't exactly aiming for the grape. His spotter had known the truth, but he was sent into Raccoon City with his UCBS platoon the next day and never came back. And so, the legend of Wachowski's skill had grown, but nearly as exponentially as his ego. If anyone were to ask him, he'd never missed a shot in his life. There was some truth to this; after all, a fired bullet must eventually hit something, thus meaning he had never actually missed.

"Holy shit, you should check out the babes in this apartment," he gasped. "Bonerific."

"Dammit man, show some discipline" urged Stephens. "If we land them now, there's a cool million per head and we can go home."

"And if we don't, the amount goes up again and our European vacation gets extended," replied the gawking man. "Shit, you should see the rack on this one," he said, licking his lips as he raked his rifle's sights over her trim body. "Be a shame to put a bullet through that…"

"Good god, man! Get a goddamn grip on yourself," said the other man, who was struggling to hide his own curiosity. After a few moments, seeing the boyish leer on Wojo's face, Stephens couldn't resist the urge and he too raised his rifle to get a better look across the street.

--

Leaning back in her swiveling chair, Jill couldn't help but be pleased with herself. Leon grinned goofily at her as he followed Claire into the room. His earlier questions about whom Claire had met were suddenly unimportant as he watched Jill uncross her legs as she stood up, straightening her short skirt. She had tied her long hair up in a messy bun atop her head, with a wooden pencil dug in to hold her thick locks in place. Leon tried to think of baseball…it wasn't working.

"So, what do you have for us," Claire asked of Jill, who was now seated again.

"I hacked into the weather satellite for that area and found a series of mountains that might fit the description of Sherry's and her other details. My question is, do you think Sherry wrote some of these letters in code?"

"I'd think so," replied Claire. "The details seem so mundane to anyone not looking for a code, that it sounds to me like they'd just leave them in."

"Unless they expected her to do this and changed a detail here or there to throw us off," suggested Jill.

"That's very possible," offered Leon. The way the two women looked at him, they seemed genuinely surprised he was even there.

"I don't think so," countered Claire, leafing through the letters in her hand. "Across the letters we see similar details and references, letters from over a year apart. To come up with that complex a lie seems silly, especially when one small detail could throw us off completely."

"I was thinking of that too, so I cross referenced some of her weather descriptions with the dates on the actual letters. Like this one, for example," she said, holding one up for them to see. "Dated January 17th of last year, and she mentions hail and sleet. The farmer's almanac for West Virginia supports that claim, but the Virginia one doesn't. Her letters are supposedly coming from Virginia, but it's not such a stretch to have her letters mailed from across state lines. However, it does tell us that if someone else is writing them, they didn't write them all at once and simply send them out at different times."

"Brilliant," said Leon, shaking his head in wonder at Jill's detective work. Claire glared at him; she could understand his obvious schoolboy crush on Jill, but this was serious work they were doing. He needed to keep his head in the game. She caught his eye and he reddened.

"Ah, that is, have you tried cross referencing with other nearby states," he asked, trying to contribute something.

"Yes, all the adjacent states to Virginia and West Virginia, which covers that whole region."

"What if they mailed it to another state, only to have that contact mail it again," wondered Claire. "It's not that hard to do, and it'd throw a huge monkey wrench into any type of paper trail."

"That's true," Jill said, her forehead scrunching in thought. "Is there anyway we can verify the dates of the mailing on the letters and the postmark dates on the envelopes? That would answer that question."

Leon waited for Claire to explain the circumstances, but she only turned to look expectantly at him with Jill. Apparently she wanted him to acknowledge his mistake again, in front of the other woman.

"Ah, I kind of left them back home," he said weakly. Jill didn't seem to react to his answer, only to turn back to her computer and continue tapping away at the keyboard. Leon's face fell.

"Is there anyone who can give us the dates off them, or even fax them to us, like a girlfriend," Claire suggested. She paused, seeming to think for a moment. "Or a…boyfriend?"

Jill caught the laugh in her throat and composed herself, pretending to cough. "We have a secure line here, running through about a dozen access points, so you can use the phone. A fax, however…you'll have to go down around the corner to the store to use it," she said, seeing Leon's face redden brightly.

Still fuming over Claire's remark, Leon thanked Jill with a nod and headed to the phone, his ears burning crimson. Dialing the numbers, the other line was picked up on the third ring.

"Hey, it's me," said Leon.

"Leon, how goes it man," greeted Carlos. "How's Ireland?"

"London, and good so far. Listen, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure man, but make it quick. Heading into the city tonight…"

"In my footlocker, there's a stack of envelopes…get them."

He heard Carlos put the receiver down but pick it up a moment later.

"You got a combination lock on it. What, you don't trust me or something, man?"

"Should I? The combination is thirty six-twenty four-thirty six."

He could hear Carlos' grin on the other line. "You get that specially made?"

"No, just lucky I guess."

"Yeah, if she's _five-foh'_," added Carlos.

"Huh?"

He sighed. "Nothing, nothing. Alright, hold up a sec." Returning a moment later, he gave Leon the info he needed.

"Thanks Sundance," said Leon, knowing Carlos would appreciate him saying that, and the thought triggered a memory. "How was…the uh, service?"

"First funeral I been to in awhile," Carlos said somberly. The change in his tone caught Leon off guard. Memories of that cold dark day came rushing back, the panicked screams in fumbling darkness, the chattering fire glow of automatic gunfire highlighting their grimly bloodstained faces.

"Oh," was the only reply he could muster. "Did a lot of his family make it?"

"A whole lot of _no one_ made it," replied Carlos, trying to keep light. "A few of us from the unit made it, but the higher ups were swamped with paperwork after that disaster of an operation. Guess the guy had no family."

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it," said Leon.

"Nah, it's alright, hombre. Billy wouldn't have wanted us to make a big deal out of it anyways."

"I know," he said weakly. "But I still should've been there."

"It was your leave time, man. Ain't no way you're gonna get it changed."

"Yeah, but still…"

"Forget about it. Rest up on your leave time while you can; don't worry about us."

"He was a nice guy, a really good guy."

"Let's not get carried away, Leon. We fought on the same side, but he knew the risks just like us."

"I guess."

"Look, I know why you're concerned, but let it go. You gotta stay frosty if you wanna make it in this business."

"You're right, you're right," Leon replied. But as he wished his friend well and hung up the phone, he couldn't believe that kind of thinking one bit.

--

Cross-referencing the information had been successful. With the dates from the envelopes as a time reference, Jill had narrowed down their search to three possible locales in the two states, and Claire was eternally grateful. Leon was disappointed that their collaboration had to end, but when Jill touched his arm, he felt warm electricity coursing through his body, and all disappointment was instantly forgotten. He followed the two women to the living room of the apartment, and couldn't help but wonder how they afforded such a nice apartment with none of them working.

It was more of an armory than an apartment with all the guns and weapons they had lying around, fancy pieces from all over the world and more than a few expensive antiques. The rooms stank of cordite and gunpowder, and Leon had asked them why they weren't worried about the police coming after them as suspected terrorists. Chris stared at him blankly.

"They care about terrorists around here as much as the US does," he said. "That being, not at all. Like most people, they just want to sweep it under the rug, let someone else handle it. It's only when some terrorist cell bombs a school or a hospital in their hometown do people start to care. It's the same thing with Umbrella. No one seemed to care what they were doing. People knew. Dammit, _powerful _people knew. And they decided not to do anything because it wasn't an in-your-face-problem. Well, we're not going to let that slide. Our plan is to take down Umbrella for good."

"But…they _are_ down. The government froze the company's stock and assets, effectively killing off the corporation," Leon said.

"It's never that simple. That's like trying to kill a zombie by depriving it of its hands and feet. You kill it by taking out the head, the brain."

"But this isn't undead we're dealing with. The O.R.E. is taking care of—"

"The O.R.E. is a sham," Jill said suddenly from her seat in the corner. She was leaning against the arm of a recliner, her long legs crossed at the knee, and staring unflinchingly at Leon. He opened his mouth to argue, but relented under her determined gaze.

"It's not perfect, but it's finishing the job you're talking about," he finally said, stealing another glance at her. She was still staring at him with those azure eyes, and he began to squirm.

"Just be careful of whom you trust," she said gently, her eyes softening as her soft lips parted ever so slightly in a small smile. Leon's heart skipped a beat. Was this what love felt like, he wondered.

"You seem to trust me just fine, and I'm involved with them," Leon muttered under his breath.

"Leon…" Claire began. "I—we trust you, but we're worried about O.R.E.'s agenda is all," she added, touching his arm gently. He bristled at the contact, turning to look distantly out the window.

"My bosses want Umbrella taken down too; isn't that what matters?"

"What kind of information does your agency have on Umbrella," asked Barry, still intent on cleaning his gun, peering through an empty cylinder as he swabbed it.

"I rarely see the intel myself, but I know it's pretty up to date," Leon replied.

"How can you be sure? You haven't even been on the field to know if it's good or not," Chris said, his tone harsh. Claire flashed him a look. "That is…yet," he added, giving his sister a copasetic glance.

"Everything is top of the line, first string," he answered. "No doubt the information is the same."

"That's quite an assumption," Barry said, putting down his gun pieces. "But whether or not it's reliable, I'll say what we're all thinking: we need it anyways," he confided.

"That's true," echoed Jill thoughtfully. "Misinformation can be useful in the right hands."

"So, what you're saying is you want me to risk my freedom and career to be your _error checker_," Leon asked, standing up abruptly. He walked to the window and stared at the usually bustling street below. It was quiet now, nearly teatime perhaps. Standing silently against the warm breeze flowing through the cracked window panel, he felt their curious eyes burning into his back. Claire sauntered over to his side, avoiding his gaze as she stared out the window herself.

"Leon…about what I was trying to tell you earlier," she began, an uncharacteristic nervousness creeping along the edge of her words. "I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not, but when I was on Rockfort, I saw a—"

Had she been wearing her usual red jacket, he would've missed the glowing dot on her chest. Against her black t-shirt, though, it stood out like a bloody stain, a moving bloody stain. Understanding instantly what it was, he threw his body at her, burying her with his chest as they crashed to the floor. As they fell, he noticed the two shimmering glints across the street: a pair of snipers, maybe more in hiding. Hearing her muffled grunt beneath him, he knew she was fine once the bullets started flying.

Barry flipped over the heavy kitchen table he had been working on, ducking behind it as he drew his Python. Jill was furiously working at something by the front door as Chris ran into the kitchen after tossing a smoking pellet to the floor.

"Jill, get back," yelled Barry, leveling his revolver at the door with a grim grin. "Let 'em in, I'll cover your escape!"

Leon and Claire were crawling towards the kitchen as a downpour of broken glass rained down on them, furniture disintegrating under the hail of heavy gunfire. Keeping one eye on the monitor in the other room, Jill twisted one last wire into place before following the others.

The lights above them flickered once before dying completely with the rest of the power. A moment later, the loud whirling of a backup generator snapped to life, and they came back on. Back on the keyboard, Jill turned to Chris with a smile.

"See, that's why we run the computer off the backup generator," she gloated playfully, winking at him. Chris shrugged, sliding a magazine into another rifle before tossing it to her. The kitchen was windowless, so they were in no danger from the snipers across the street. Jill switched over the monitor's display, and a black and white video feed from the hallway appeared on the screen. Two lines of five armed men were just outside the door on both sides of the hallway, the lead man prepping his battering ram. "Barry, get in here," she yelled over the gunfire.

A moment later, Barry's large shape came crashing through the doorway, his vest covered in sparkling shards of glass. He still held his beloved Python, but he had added over a half dozen other guns, all strapped across his body. Leon had a feeling he had a lot more hidden ones.

"They're at the door," Leon told Barry, who only nodded, his hand cannon still aimed at the doorway behind them. "What do we do now," Leon asked. The sniper fire seemed to have stopped, which meant a breach was inevitable. They had been lucky that the sniper slipped up, or they would have been sitting ducks. As it was, the sniper's mix-up probably put the breach team in a bad situation, who might not have been in position at the time.

"Always have a backdoor," Claire said, watching as her brother lifted the floor panels to reveal a narrow shaft. Leon peered down its dark mouth and saw no ladder or handholds.

"You're kidding," he said. Chris grinned in response.

"Just brace with your legs and let yourself slide down; the landing is soft…I promise," he said, signaling Leon to go ahead. Leon looked at him warily, and Chris' responded by handing him a large pistol and an extra clip.

Claire pushed Leon aside, grabbing a submachine gun and her jacket. Without hesitating, she leapt down the hole and disappeared.

"See, not so hard," Chris said. He put his hand on Leon's shoulder. "Listen, if we get split up, I want you to keep an eye on my sister," he added, his eyes pleading silently for trust. Nodding, Leon looked back once at the others before diving in.

* * *

_Writer's note: To the observant readers out there, I am aware that I left Leon and Carlos hanging in that Arctic facility with Billy dead, their squadron under attack, and their purpose unexplained. However, I plan to allude to that event from the various character point of views, painting a picture in fragments. It might come off a bit disjointed, but I like the idea that even the people involved really had no idea what exactly happened. I had originally intended to write another, separate story about Leon's ORE days, because it was rather distracting to write about, but I felt I owed it to him since I started it here, sort of like how I dragged out Claire's escape for so long._ _Honestly, I felt a little guilty about making Leon such a bumbling fool around the women, but it has been awhile since he's interacted with a woman, much less two very attractive ones. There was a need for humor in that part, juvenille as it might be..._

_Also been tossing around the thought of renaming my story, since Ada has seemingly taken a backseat to all the other RE characters popping in and making noise. However, when I started this, I had intended for her relationship with Leon and Wesker to be the centerpiece of the story, since it connected all the canon games. And yet…Ada hasn't reunited with Leon, and he doesn't even know she's alive! Oh well. Ada is still my favorite character to play with, and I have a lot more in store for her in coming installments._


	14. The story thus far: plot summary

_The story thus far…_

Got this idea from Robert E. Howard, who wrote his stories in installments that were sold monthly, and thought to myself "what a great idea! Now I can keep new readers in the light and let older readers maybe find something new they might've missed!" As this is just a basic outline, I tried to write it in the order of the story, but the story does jump around a lot chronologically, so bear with me. Tenses will be off here and there, but what the hey, this is just a synopsis. So here it goes…

Ada awakens in a solitary cell, where she finds her wounds bandaged and mostly healed. Her memory slowly comes back to her, and she realizes she nearly died during the Raccoon City incident in RE2. Someone on an intercom begins speaking to her, and invites her to meet face to face. Curious, she complies.

Within the modern (but nearly empty) facility, she follows a nurse named Cindy to meet with her benefactor. There, she comes face to face with a man believed dead: Albert Wesker. Wesker speaks highly of her in a professional regard, and invites her to stay and heal, possibly even join his team. Ada decides she doesn't like Wesker much, but decides to see how things play out.

Meanwhile, Leon, with Sherry and Claire, are limping out of the tunnel from the RE2 ending. While walking, Leon becomes annoyed with the girl's incessant whining, and hopes never to have to deal with someone like that again (RE4 fans know he will, soon enough). After reaching the woods, the trio is stopped by a squad of Umbrella's clean up squad, who are out to wipe out any possibly infected survivors. Most of the squad hesitates, seeing a little girl and a young woman; apparently the men weren't expecting to find any survivors at all. But the leader is all business, and begins to raise his gun to kill them himself. Leon uncharacteristically hugs Claire tightly, and she feels the rumble of the missiles nuking the city behind them. The squad of men are stunned, knocked off balance, but Leon and Claire are already back on their feet and firing their weapons into the squad's ranks.

Having killed or injured them all, Leon is despondent and wishes to be left alone, despite Claire and Sherry assuring him he did the right thing. They walk in silence for a ways, until they come upon another clean up operation, this one strictly military and federal, non-Umbrella related. Sherry notices this from her parent's Umbrella days, and Leon decides it's best to take their chances with them.

Ada is wondering herself what she should do, sitting with nurse Cindy, who is about to give her an injection. Asking what it is, Cindy reveals to Ada that it is an antibody meant to stay the growth of her virus which threatens to take over and destroy her body. Adding to this revelation is the fact that Ada is being kept alive by that same virus. When she confronts Wesker with this, he tells her it was she who asked for his help, and that it was Leon's fault Birkin was dead, the only other man capable of making the serum. Without Wesker's serum, Ada will die a horrible death.

Back in the outskirts of the city, Leon is pulled aside by federal agents, who extend him an invitation into a new government organization. He modestly declines, eager to begin his new job, which is to take down Umbrella. The agents coerce him into it, threatening Claire and Sherry, who are now under the power of the government. Leon reluctantly accepts his fate.

Ada, meanwhile, is still struggling to accept hers. She wonders if Wesker is telling the truth, and asks her new friend nurse Cindy about it. Cindy reveals her and her husband were test subjects of Wesker's, and that Wesker kept her husband alive long enough to torture him to death while she watched. Terrified of the man, Cindy becomes even more anxious when she discovers Ada mentioned to him where she learned the truth. She is summoned by Wesker and never seen again.

Claire and Sherry are worried about Leon, the young woman beginning to wonder if she has feelings for the man who helped them escape. He comes back from the tent a different man, and yells at Claire, telling her to leave. He takes Sherry from her, where he promises Claire she will be safe. Sherry begins to cry at his change, and Claire can only comply, dumbstruck by this shift. She disappears into the woods among the commotion.

The two agents take Leon and Sherry to a medical facility, where they draw her blood. Later, he is separated from the girl and taken to the office of an important man in the government. The man tells Leon that the deal he made with the agents is off, since Sherry has living family in the country, who came to take her back. By law, there is nothing else they can do, and it would be best to let her adapt to her new home. Leon becomes angry, and the man offers Leon a position in the ORE, an organization created to work directly under the President. In exchange, the man will arrange letters to be exchanged between the two, if Leon participates in the program. It is only after deal is struck that the man is revealed to be Secretary Graham, a man who will later become President (in RE4). The agents later let it slip that Graham was the one who recommended the President nuke Raccoon City.

Claire's troubles have just begun. Another squad of Umbrella soldiers come upon her trail, and are chasing her throughout the woods. She uses all the survival tips her brother taught her to escape them. Believing she lost them while hiding in a tree stump, she crawls out hours later to come face to face with one. She surprises him, and considers taking his life with her knife, but at the last second goes for his shoulder instead. Pinning him down, she has another chance to kill him, but feels pity for the balding man. She puts pressure on his wound and the two feel a strange connection. Only when his other squad members close in on her is she forced to run again. Leaping off a high waterfall in the dark, she loses them for good. It never occurred to Claire that her knife was tainted with T-Virus blood from the city incident, and so the man is infected, who later infects the entire group. They all die days later in quarantine.

Claire stumbles upon a lonely cabin in the woods, and after finding no one in it, decides to use whatever she can find. She finds faded pictures and old letters within the cabin, and grabs the few supplies she can find. (For RE:Outbreak/File 2 fans, this is the cabin found in the Flashback scenario) Moving further along, she finds the crumbled remains of the abandoned hospital (also from Flashback), and skirts along its ruins to find a path leading out of the mountains. She eventually makes her way back to her dorm, where she cleans up and packs up her belongings. In her rush to get out and find her brother, she never hears her phone ringing behind her.

Fast forward a few months. Ada is on her first mission for Wesker, to infiltrate Rockfort Island while his commandoes assault the Umbrella facility (in RE:CV). She makes her way across the water and through the facility, only to find roadblock after roadblock in her way. With Wesker's advanced equipment, she is able to make due, but this is a far cry from the skilled Ada we see in RE4.

Leon begins his own first mission, a foray in an Arctic Umbrella facility. He is green, but accompanied by a hardcore bunch of ORE soldiers. Most notably among the group in Leon's fireteam is Carlos Olivera from RE3 and Billy Coen from RE:Zero. Another familiar face coordinating with their captain is a Lt. Jack Krauser. The captain begins to wonder if he can trust his old friend Jack Krauser anymore.

Ada faces off against a Bandersnatch, a creature she'd never heard of. She is nearly killed due to her overconfidence, but once she gets down and dirty, she cuts the creature to pieces with an advanced knife prototype. Looking at the strange creature, she begins to wonder if Wesker wants her out of the way by not preparing her for this. Wesker contacts her, and tells her to change their plans to capturing an Ashford. Alfred is heading for the airport hangar, so it's up to her.

Leon's fireteam does well against the first wave of zombies, but are forced to a high catwalk. After wiping out the undead horde, Billy clambers down the ladder, eager for action. Halfway down, he is attacked from the dark shadows by a new type of Licker, one that has a barbed tongue, with acidic drool, and most importantly, is a patient hunter. Billy, in his position, is no match for the advanced creature, who beheads him. Carlos and Leon kill it in a blind rage, and discover themselves surrounded by more of those Lickers. It seems they hunt in packs as well.

Searching through the Ashford facility, Ada comes upon Claire Redfield, who is looking for her brother Chris. The two fight briefly, with Ada gaining the upper hand, but just barely. She expresses admiration for Claire's skill, but treats her like a kid. Claire asks if Ada has seen her friend Steve, someone even younger than her roaming the facility. Ada points her in the right direction, and in exchange Claire tells her that the only seaplane is locked by a strange puzzle device, and that finding one Ashford will inevitably lead to another (wink). Thanking her, Ada tells Claire that if she has a chance, to take the plane right away and not wait for her. As she is leaving, Ada calls her "Claire" and asks to her to "tell Leon she said hi". It occurs to Claire she never told Ada what her name was, but Ada is already gone.

Wesker calls Ada again, this time with orders to kill Claire. Ada reluctantly agrees, but after closing her connection with Wesker, she draws out the last puzzle piece and releases the plane for the girl to make her escape. Ada has decided to go along with Wesker's plan, but to sabotage it wherever she can. This is after Alfred makes his escape in the jet plane, and Wesker announces his plan to pursue the Ashford. Ada also plants a tracking bug on the plane, just in case.

A few hours later, Ada hears someone else approaching the island. Hiding, she sees the ruggedly handsome face of Chris Redfield, out to find his sister on the island after receiving an email from Leon telling him she was in danger. Chris exhibits a fair amount of skill on his approach to the island, and Ada can't help but be impressed. That all changes, however, when she witnesses him drop his backpack filled with survival gear during his climb. She decides to watch over him and make sure he gets his shot at Wesker.

Later, Ada gets a call from Wesker, who has just gotten his ass beaten by Alexia, the other Ashford, who had been incubating the virus for over a decade. Ada ridicules him for his failure, and he becomes understandably upset by this. Ada is able to deflect his anger towards the Redfields when she reveals Chris is on his way to Antarctica for Claire.

The story shifts to Sherry, who is being held in a scientific facility and cared for by doctors and scientists. The doctors can find absolutely zero mutation in her body, and are puzzled by this. Bickering breaks out amongst the brains, and one child psychologist in particular, named Linda, is passionate about treating Sherry like a person, not an experiment. Still, Sherry's trust in adults is all but nonexistent now, so she barely opens up to anyone.

More time passes, and still no results for the young girl. Some of the doctors want to quit, the excitement from this project long gone. Sherry notices the change in their attitude, and begins to enjoy herself a bit more, now that she's not under the microscope. Linda still treats her the same, and encourages the young girl's aptitude for bioscience, which first blooms as she approaches 'womanhood'. She gets Sherry books and magazines on the subject, and Sherry is engrossed by them.

Leon and Claire reunite in London, a year or so after the city incident. Leon has completed his ORE training, and Claire has joined with her brother to investigate Umbrella's European operations. The US branch of Umbrella had been liquidated eight months earlier by the US government, who froze their assets and halted the sale of their stock. With the US corporate branch dead, Leon believed his work mostly done, and with ORE, he could help eradicate the last bits of the evil corporation. The two survivors feel the rekindling attraction they left behind in the city, and Claire understood Leon had pushed her away back then to protect her. Still, Leon is a bit awkward around pretty girls, it seems, after a long and lonely training regiment.

The issue of Sherry comes up, and Claire's despondent that she is unable to receive correspondence from the girl without jeopardizing her and her brother's safety. Leon pulls out the letters he had gotten, and expresses the strange feeling he got when reading them. Claire, studying them intently, comes to the conclusion they weren't written by Sherry. She comes up with another idea, and leaps up to run off. Leon follows.

Later, they find themselves in the apartment of Claire's brother Chris, sitting before the computer where the beautiful Jill Valentine taps furiously away at the keyboard. Leon immediately falls for her, and his awkwardness is only further complicated by Claire poking fun at him in front of her. Jill cross references everything Sherry wrote in her letters with a geographic database, looking for consistent weather patterns, mountains, landmarks, and so forth, to extrapolate her location. Chris introduces Leon to their last team member, Barry Burton, a kind but goofy fellow. Claire takes this opportunity to get Leon alone, where she begins to tell him about her fateful meeting with Ada, who she believes is working with Wesker. Further complicating matters are her own growing feelings for him, as she can tell he was quite fond of Ada.

* * *

_Note: I'll probably do one more of these in 5-10 chapters, because I have the impending conclusion coming up pretty soon. Time frames might be a bit off, but this IS Resident Evil I'm working with here. Nothing major though, maybe a few months off for the careful reader to notice. Sherry's age right now is the big problem. Anyways, to new readers, hope you found this useful to catch up. And to the regulars, hope you maybe found something you missed the first time around. I sometimes try to be too subtle for my own good. _


	15. Under the city, a truth revealed

--

The assault team was in a bad place. The breach team was gathering at the backdoor of the building, ready to make their move into the building and take out the targets, when they heard gunfire erupt from above them. With the surprise element gone, they blew the back door and rushed up the stairs, leaving two behind to cover the lift and take out the power. Uncarpeted stairs gave way to pounding footfalls, the unrelenting charge of the unit rattling through the empty stairwell.

An anonymous contact in the building had evacuated the tenants only minutes earlier. There weren't many to move; only a half dozen apartments in the building were occupied, and all on the lower floors. The targets had rented out both units on the top floor, and the floor below them was used for storage. The strike team could have gone in with guns blazing, but their leader had insisted on taking them alive if possible. Most of the men had groaned despite the rewards doubling if brought in alive; they were tired from chasing them for months on end. They just wanted the whole thing over with. Some of the men were considering abandoning the pursuit, doubtful that the remnants of Umbrella could even come up with the reward money with some of the ordinance they were being supplied with. After all, there were other high paying jobs that promised adventure out there.

The fifth floor of the building seemed quieter than the rest. It was one long hallway with doors on opposite sides, one leading to a two-bedroom unit, the other a studio. The team split in half, each side lining up along the walls, their stubby sub machine guns cocked and loaded. Lieutenant Cripps signaled to the breach man, a short stocky man from somewhere in the Middle East known to the others only as Kazir. While little to nothing was known about the man, Cripps knew he was reliable in a shootout. Grasping the heavy battering ram in his large hands, he shuffled to the enforced steel door. Sweating from the strain and his heavy armor, he set the ram into place and signaled for another man to grasp the other side. Most of the time he could take any door on his own, but the fact that this door was metal, and no doubt enforced, made it a two man job. Realizing time was of the essence, Cripps leapt forward to grab the other side's handles, tucking his rifle at his back. Kazir mouthed "on two", and began to count down. They rested the ram against the metal plate at the center of the door before slowly arcing it back. Before they could bring it down, however, the door disappeared in a ball of incandescent fire, and the world along with it.

--

"Alright, everything's wiped," said Jill, pocketing the computer disk as she finished the formatting command. "This has everything we know and leaves nothing of value behind."

"I'll cover your escape," Barry said, eager for an excuse to use his hand cannon. "With _this_," he added, and they half expected him to start petting his weapon lovingly. Chris horse collared him roughly from behind.

"Barry, you know we're set to go," Chris ordered, shoving him down the hole as Barry's expletives echoed off the walls of the shaft. "Ladies first," he beckoned to Jill.

"You say that after Barry and Leon go? Thanks."

"What can I say, I'm a progressive kind of guy," he said, kissing her deeply before sending her off. Setting the string of concussive grenades along the wall of the kitchen, he grabbed his trusty knife and pistol before leaping down after her.

Sliding through darkness, the deep rumble of the explosives going off above him shook the building to its very foundation. His mental timer was at 60 seconds for them fully evacuating their base of operations. Not bad, but not good either. It would definitely have to improve for their next one.

--

Chris was a liar, Leon thought to himself. He had promised a soft landing, and instead Leon found himself lying in the babbling current of foul smelling water. History books had told him all about the catacombs in France during the Revolution and Resistance movements, but he had no idea London had its own extensive network of underground tunnels.

Claire had somehow managed to land without so much as a drop of water on her person, while Barry was just as graceless as Leon, landing face first in the muck. Jill landed gracefully, dangling over the lip before swinging to land agilely on the side platform where Claire stood. Sadly, she was no longer wearing the short skirt, Leon noticed as he looked up. She had somehow found the time to change to a pair of slim dark slacks, and tucked her hair into a light beret. Leon definitely dug the look.

Chris came through last, signaled by the rumble above them. He landed squarely in the water, but squarely on his feet, as grimy water splashed into the surprised faces of Leon and Barry. Bits of debris and dust followed his arrival, sprinkling across the shallow water.

"What was that noise," Claire asked.

"I wired the door with explosives," Jill replied, her eyes scanning the dim darkness of the tunnel.

"I added a hoop of grenades to take out the guys on the hallway wall too," Chris said, pulling himself onto the platform to join them. "Won't kill them, but it'll give them the worst hangover of their lives."

"Did you get a good look at them," Barry asked to no one in particular.

"I did," answered Jill. "Definitely Umbrella Countermeasure core soldiers."

"Umbrella's Gestapo? That's strange," commented Chris, scratching his head before quickly dismissing the meandering thought. "We should get moving anyways. This way," he ordered, leading them down a path lit up by dim bulbs strung along the wall. Once they saw brighter lights down the tunnel, Chris reached behind him and cut the wire with his knife, drowning the long tunnel behind them in complete blackness.

"Why'd you do that," Leon wondered.

"I put those lights up to guide us out. Don't want UCBS following our bread crumbs, right?"

They trudged for another hundred meters when they heard the din of the train station ahead. Footing had become drier, surer, and Leon realized the drainage path had somehow taken them within earshot of a train terminal. A great escape route, he thought to himself. They were just outside the safety of the platform's lights when he felt the unforgiving barrel of a gun dig roughly into his back.

"What the—?"

Barry reached over and wrenched the pistol roughly from Leon's hand, and Leon felt Jill's warm breath on the back of his neck as she patted him down with her free hand. He shuddered.

"Keep the hands up, cowboy," she ordered coldly. "Who are you really working for?"

"What the hell is this," Leon yelled, locking his fingers atop his head. "I'm on your side!"

"Are you? Awfully convenient how the UCBS found us _today_, after we lost them in Berlin four months ago."

"But I-I saved Claire!"

"All the more reason to suspect you're involved. How could you have known a sniper was there?"

"I saw the laser sight!"

"No self respecting marksman uses a laser scope in daylight," she growled, digging the gun in harder.

"And when Claire needed Chris' help in Rockfort? What did I have to gain by helping her then?"

"Chris, what is this!" Claire yelled angrily, struggling to fight past her brother's protective arms. He held her in place wordlessly, his eyes studying Leon's every word, every action. "I saw the laser in the smoke too!"

"Sorry Claire, but it's not so easy to know who we can trust," said Barry. "For all you know, Wesker might have something on him."

"What the fuck is Wesker," asked Leon, incredulous at this turn of events. "I don't even know what a Wesker is!"

"Wesker couldn't have anything on Leon," cried Claire. "This is going nowhere!"

"Wesker can get something on anyone," whispered Barry, his eyes sullen. "Believe me."

"Last time we trusted someone we shouldn't have, we lost Rebecca," Chris said, breaking his silence. Everyone lowered their head at the mention of the name, even Jill. Still she held her gun, though, aimed steadily at the base of Leon's spine.

Leon looked them over, finally understanding. "Listen, I can understand your paran—suspicion. But I'm working _against_ Umbrella. They tried to kill me and Claire, several times over. I have no love for them, or for money. I'm working with the O.R.E. to protect the country and—"

At his back, Jill scoffed. "You can't seriously be _this_ apple pie," she said.

"What do you mean," Leon asked, turning slowly to face her.

"You're gonna get yourself killed if you don't wake up, junior," she said harshly. "You're not 'serving your country' like a good patriot, you're helping the newest bad guys on the block who've just changed names. The O.R.E…? People aren't 'recruited' to join, they're _forced_ into it."

"That's not how it happens," he said, doubt creeping into his words for the first time. The dim memory of Graham's unspoken threats lingered. While the two agents might've forced him to cooperate and meet, Graham really hadn't given him a way out either. It was Leon's own sense of nationalistic duty that kept him involved.

"Isn't it? They blackmailed a survivor I escaped with, dangling a pardon over his head, threatening deportation and a firing squad back home, and they tried to use my family as leverage against me."

Leon stood silently, her words tearing at him. "Then why are you here," he whispered.

"Because my grandfather died just before the disaster, and those bastards never realized it," she answered glumly. "So don't blame me if I have doubts about their integrity, much less their information network."

"But they…serve…America," he whispered.

"They serve themselves if they answer to no one," countered Barry. Leon turned to him in disbelief.

"You too?"

Barry looked down wistfully at his massive gun, his thumb pulling nervously at the hammer. "No, they didn't want me. Said I was 'too old'…didn't have the 'accuracy' to make it," he muttered. "Bastards."

"Did you about know this," Leon asked breathlessly, turning to Claire. "Is it true?"

"They told me stories, but I wasn't sure myself," she replied. "It doesn't matter, though, Leon. That's on O.R.E., not you."

"You really believe that?"

"I-I believe in you," she began, her words slowly gaining strength. "I know we're going to find Sherry—"

"Why did you let me in if you suspected me," Leon asked Chris abruptly. He had to deal with his problems one at a time. As much as he hated himself for it, the gun at his back would have to be dealt with now, Sherry later.

"It wasn't that we suspected you of anything, but you have to admit, circumstance is working against you…"

"Yeah, it's nothing personal," Jill said, her killer's facade beginning to fade. For the first time, Leon didn't notice the softness of her luscious features, so lost was he in his own troubled thoughts.

"You strike me as a good kid," Barry added. "And you obviously have good intentions. But things aren't so simple as choosing the good side over the bad side. Only thing you can do is make the best choice you can."

Those words…Leon had heard them before. Graham had said the same thing to him when recruiting him. Or was he forced into it like Jill said? Did he really believe what he was doing was making the country better? Leon looked over everyone in the faint light of the tunnel and suddenly felt older than he had ever felt in all his life. Jill lowered her gun slowly, her eyes sympathetic. Barry, too, looked solemnly at the confused young man, saddened that he didn't have enough answers to offer. Chris nodded to him and Leon turned away, walking into the light and away from the last remnants of S.T.A.R.S., a team he had admired and once aspired to join. Emerging from the dark tunnel, he was a changed man: cynical, jaded, confused.

Claire pulled away from Chris to follow him, but she felt his hand holding her shoulder.

"Let him go, Claire," he said simply. But for the first time in all their young lives, she refused to look up at her brother. Hesitating for little more than a heartbeat, she shook off his grip and ran after Leon. She didn't look back.

* * *

_Note: This chapter is a bit shorter than I had intended, but I liked the image ofClaire running after Leon and away from her brother Chris. The conclusion to the European section will come via Interlude, which is the next installment. We'll also see Ada again, several months after Rockfort Island. Expect her to be a bit more dangerous than the last time we saw her. But of course she'll put on her lackadaisical appearance and pretend not to care too much. Ah, you just gotta love her. _


	16. The end draws near: Interlude

--_Interlude_

The payphone was as ancient as the cobblestone street, situated in the middle of nowhere, and completely unremarkable save its convenience at that moment. He slid into the cool shade of it, pulling the booth door shut behind him. The walls were lined with long outdated flyers, most peeling to a faded yellow from time in the sun, and the narrow booth smelled of dust and misuse.

He dropped a coin into the slot, dialing a long number from memory. His ears still rang as he wiped the drying blood from his forehead. Most of his clothes were torn to shreds, and the exposed skin was covered with burns and caked blood. Fighting his blurring vision, he waited a moment for it to return to focus before dialing the last two numbers. The whirr of the phone buzzed in his ear, the repetitive drone of the line sounding like distant music to his shell-shocked ears. Finally, it clicked as someone picked up the other line. It was a man's voice, a slight Southern twang hidden by practiced study and linguistics training.

"Yes?"

"The operation was a failure, sir. They knew we were coming and were waiting for us."

Silence.

"They wiped out my whole unit and any evidence they were even there, sir."

"So you're telling me all you have are dead bodies and nothing of value to show for it?"

"…Yes, sir."

"My, you certainly live up to your nickname, Mr. Death. However, when you were referred to me, I heard nothing about this so-called 'death' involving my other paid employees…"

"Sir, they're not all dead…with a few in critical condition."

"Nevertheless, this is _not_ what I paid good money for, boy. Is this type of…routine commonplace for you?"

He sighed. "No sir, it is not."

"So you'll understand if your payment is not as we initially agreed upon as well."

"Of course."

"Well, now that we have that out of the way…do you at least have any leads?"

"Our wire hasn't picked up anything. They had an escape shaft that led to the sewers, and from there they could access any Tube in London. We've made the calls to the proper channels in the travel outlets, but with my men all incapacitated, our surveillance is quite limited."

"Were you able to dispatch any of the targets?"

"…No sir, we were unable to…but I have it on the word of one of my men that he winged one of the women."

"And…Kennedy?"

"He was with them, sir, so we followed him and the Redfield girl to the other three, possibly more."

A long silence. "Very well. Do not use this number again. The deposit is all you shall ever receive from me in the form of payment. I would advise staying out of my realm of knowledge if you wish to continue breathing as well."

"…Very well…sir." He heard the line drop, and knew he was alone. That bastard Graham was going to get his someday, he thought, and Hunk was just the type of man to deliver.

--

A bright image appeared on the overhead screen, crystal clear cascading colors. Vibrant, untamed, and wildly lush jungle foliage stood out starkly from the pristine mountains in the horizon's postcard perfect backdrop.

"Whoa, fancy new equipment…someone's been a good supervillain lately," said Ada, nibbling her pencil.

"Business has been good," admitted Wesker, standing behind the podium at the front of the room and looking over the new hardware. A high domed ceiling overshadowed the room, and the view screen would have dwarfed any Cineplex. Six rows of eight chairs lined the lower level, and a wide stage ran the length of the entire room, with a pulpit and gold railing running along its front. For all its fancy trim, the two were alone in the massive briefing room.

"So is that my next vacation destination," she asked, already knowing the answer. It didn't really matter; she had been cooped up inside this new facility for nearly seven months, and desperately wanted any excuse to get out. But Wesker didn't need to know that.

"Hardly; it is the site of an old Umbrella facility, abandoned nearly twenty five years ago."

"Please tell me this isn't another antique scavenging expedition…"

"I suspect there is something of value at this facility," he answered curtly, pushing a hidden button. Another image came on, a series of charts and graphs. "The power output was literally nonexistent for over twenty four years. Only after researching the accounts past due for the corporation was I able to locate this…anomaly."

"You've been keeping up on Umbrella's overdue bills? That's just sick, Wesker."

"The money is in the details, Ada. What stands out is that no one connected to the corporation should even know about this facility's existence, and yet for nearly half a year, someone has been utilizing it."

"For what purpose?"

"That is what you are going to find out."

She groaned. "Least I'll be able to work on my tan…" she said, looking over her pale arms.

"Not quite," he said, smiling frostily. "The facility is underground."

--

Bursting her bubble had given him a renewed sense of satisfaction. He strode through the halls in deathly silence, his cat-like eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Not the largest of men, his presence was more than that of a man twice his size. Others cowered in his presence, and all leapt unquestioningly from his straight lined path. He was unstoppable, a primal force of nature that manifested itself in the soul of every man ever to live. What drove Wesker was what caused others to hate themselves; the human condition was frail, imprecise…temporary. But to survive, to strive in this world, one needed to be exact, to calculate, to wear the masks society required. It was only when he cast aside the mask that had been his life for so many years did he finally realize and accept what he was.

It was an immortal thing, really, that hazy inkling that lurked in the hearts of men since the dawn of time. First arriving as suspicious doubts, they formed veiled doubt, an acceptance of fate, then finally, deadly action. Self-preservation, some labeled it, or the survival instinct. That was what his first shrink had called it. But young Albert knew it was more than that. It wasn't fear that drove him to do the awful things he did. It wasn't wealth, or ambition. It was timeless. It was elemental, like the raging storms that ravaged homes built along the coasts, not unlike the betrayal of one's comrades in exchange for material gain. The same glorious joy one found in watching another sow his or her own seed for destruction. It was inevitable chaos, but in a way, the same joy a florist gained from watching a flower gently bloom in the light.

The communications room was further than he would have liked. He didn't mind the exercise, as the walk gave him a few moments time to collect his thoughts and compose himself properly before an important call. Still, it wasn't nearly as convenient as his former facility, which housed a simple communications system within his own office. Shedding old habitats was much like shedding acquaintances; a thin layer of skin one outgrew. The snake-like metaphor satisfied him immensely. Like that which tempted those in the Garden of Eden, Wesker considered himself a catalyst, a balance by which the universe needed him to equalize. Those who trusted deserved to be betrayed. Those that loved needed to know what it meant to lose that love. Joy must turn to grief and life unto death. It was inevitable, immutable.

Opportunity had presented itself with the first string of experiments. The very idea of changing death to life lusted after his very being, and the possibilities began to snowball as this unearthly science opened itself to reveal a world beyond everything he had ever been told to believe. He had seen Pandora's box crack open ever so slightly, a sliver of dark knowledge seeping out and into his waiting grasp, and he desperately longed to see more. But that was for later; dreams would be put on hold for the time being. He had business to take care of.

The image of a haggard man's face appeared suddenly on the com-link screen. He wasn't old, just seemingly worn out, as if his thirty-something eyes had seen more than their fill. Wesker didn't doubt it. But for what he was paying this man, he figured he could at least afford a vacation or two.

"Status report," Wesker said briskly, deliberately looking down at his watch.

"You're the one late, Wesker," growled the other man. Catching his defiant tone, and realizing who he was talking to, he quickly changed his attitude. "But that's not important compared to what I have for you," he said, his voice steadying.

Wesker rested his chin on a gloved hand, waiting expectantly. His source, for once, seemed to have something of value. Despite an early success, the man had yet to live up to that triumph

"The Birkin girl…I can confirm her…ah, "awakening" to be exactly as you predicted. Quite a brilliant stroke of William," he said admiringly. "To have it take effect—"

"Is that all," Wesker asked tiredly, dismissing the man's words with a wave of his hand. "Do I need to remind you how much I am paying you?"

"That's just the tip, Mr. Wesker…the government is putting out a…hit on the girl."

"A _hit_…?"

"Yeah, straight from the top, too. Real cloak-and-dagger stuff."

"Are you telling me the US President is putting out a contract on a missing teenage runaway?"

"Not exactly. They're pulling in some top notch core soldiers for the job."

"Military involvement?"

"The advisors have pushed for a minimal degree of knowledge, particularly our golden boy. Strictly need-to-know basis; guess he wants his hands kept clean of this."

"Interesting," said Wesker, stroking his chin thoughtfully. As much as this could ruin his immediate plans, the potential possibilities were endless. The operation was an inevitably; best to make the most of it. The President directly overseeing black ops in a domestic capacity? In a worst-case scenario, the girl was worth as much to him dead or alive. Plus, she would make a great poster child in a smear campaign against the President…maybe opening a ticket for his own potential candidate. His imagination began to run away with itself.

"So did I do good, Mr. Wesker?"

"Indeed you have. Find me proof of knowledge on the President's part, and your next payment will make you…elated."

The man grinned, a gruff smile coming over his square-cut features. "Big like the one last year?"

"Bring me something on par with that Alexia/Veronica sample and I'll even take into consideration your latest request…"

"…Letting me permanently join your organization?"

"One can never have too many capable men, Mr. Krauser."

--

The red file folder, she noticed, was always in his hands. Judging by his appearance and style, black was no doubt his favorite color. However, if one were to witness his greed, one might think green was another color he loved, as much as someone like Wesker could love, that is. But red…no, red was never his color. And yet that folder was never out of his hands, never left about unattended.

That was, until today. After the short briefing, Ada furtively followed Wesker to his office, where he received a reminder about a forthcoming call he was late for. Hurrying from his office, there was no way he could have had the time to store it in his master safe like he usually did. Of this, Ada was certain. She had watched and timed him over the last four months, being careful to never write down her observations, memorizing them carefully. It took him at least 75 seconds to open and secure the master safe, which was automatically locked after being closed. Today he was in and out of his office under sixty. This was her one chance, and she knew it.

Wesker, despite his haste, still had an impervious set of locks on his office door to keep out the curious. It used an optical scanner for Wesker's uniquely colored eyes, but Ada knew he had a backup installed in case of an unplanned mutation. Luckily for her, it was a keycard system, and she had conveniently forgotten to login the card device upon her return from Rockfort Island many months ago.

After the fifth beep, she had surpassed the system's mechanism, and the door swung open with a swish. Not surprisingly, the air was a bit colder in the office, and the décor was minimalist to the point of efficient. What stood out most of all, though, was the red file folder sitting squarely on the center of his desk, begging to be opened. Ada was only too ready to comply, snatching the folder up and eagerly opening it. A startled gasp raced out of her throat despite her best efforts to keep it contained.

Wesker knew. He had known everything from the very beginning. The file contained dates, histories, relationships, anything and everything related to what he wanted: the Birkin girl. She was the key to all of Wesker's plans. Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Ada decided she couldn't in good conscience let that happen.

--

She caught up to him at the eastern terminal. He had taken the time to find a bathroom and wash up some, but he still smelled rank enough for her to keep on his ever-moving trail. Claire had no doubt she was of a similar odor, but that mattered little now. He had pretended not to see her at first, but when she got within a few feet of him, he locked eyes with her immediately. They stood in silence, emotions pouring from their young faces, unable to form the words they needed to say.

"Don't go," she said quietly. Even in the noisy bustle of the station, he knew what she had said. He looked away.

"I can't work with them, Claire," he said, shaking his head. "They don't trust me and I'm beginning to wonder why I should trust them."

"You can trust me."

"It's more than just that; there's too much mistrust in them," he said, turning to her. "I'd be careful around them if I were you."

"It was their mistrusting suspicion that got us out of that apartment alive."

"And then they almost shot me afterwards!"

"They were never going to shoot you…they were just unsure of you," she said, herself unsure.

"And did they test you the same way?"

"Well…no."

"That's what I thought. Look, I'll give your group the info you need like I promised, but I'm not going to stick my neck out for them…or anyone else."

"That doesn't sound like you at all."

"Maybe they're right," he said, uncertainty scrawled across his handsome face as he turned away. "Maybe I shouldn't trust people."

"And what about me?"

"I…I'll see you back at the States. I'll be looking for Sherry." As he spoke, she noticed he never looked directly at her when answering her question.

"Leon," she began, struggling to find the words. "I hope you're…alright when I see you again," she added, the worry in her voice obvious.

"Before I go," he began, as a metro pulled into the station. "What was it you started to tell me at the apartment?"

Seeing the steep mistrust in his disillusioned eyes, Claire couldn't bring herself to tell him about Ada, and what she suspected: that the woman who had saved his life was now working with Wesker, the man responsible for the death of countless good people. A man who wanted all of them dead, even Leon, a man he had never even met.

"Nothing important," she said, turning away and hating herself for it. With another doubtful shake of his head, he boarded the train without so much as a goodbye and made it home without incident.

**--  
**_Note: I can really feel this story starting to build where I wanted it to from the beginning. This interlude was a bit longer than my other ones, but since it jumped around so much without focusing on any one timeframe, I decided to consider it an interlude. Plus it ties up a lot of segments for the next stage of the story while opening a lot of doors for potential agendas and double crosses. Just hope some of the revelations didn't come off as forced or out of place. They felt very "Metal Gear Solid-ish", but I still like them. _

_A problem with writing everything out of order is that you want to put one part of a chapter before another one, but then you realize you're missing a part you need from the other to make sense…ugh. I played with the order of the segments until my head hurt, and decided using the European sections as bookends worked rather well. I like the semi-closure of a departure ending, but with unfinished business. _


	17. The Fate of Sherry Birkin

_**The Fate of Sherry Birkin**_

The incident, like so many others, began with a mistake. Planned or not, the 'accident' unfolded exactly as they wanted. Her yearly inoculation of flu shots had an additional, undetectable chemical enzyme mixed in, one which would trigger a fatal brain aneurysm when it met the other catalyst Dr. Hall was slipping it into her dinner. Best of all, the laced food could be given to her days later, so all suspicion regarding her shots would be left out of consideration. Not that anyone would be clamoring to perform an autopsy. Of course he would still perform one on his own, tearing through her young, unsullied body with his scalpel and bone saw, in the slim hopes of finding something worthwhile. But by then, any evidence of his deed would be wiped away by his own bloody hands, and documentation wouldn't matter because it too would be incinerated with young Sherry Birkin's body after he was done with it.

But for all his deliberate planning, the cunning doctor forgot one thing: a virus cannot die.

--

Dinner was the usual fare; a lump of processed mashed potatoes, a slab of grayish meat covered with watery gravy, and spongy, over-saturated string beans. Despite its bland appearance, it was surprisingly tasty, but the routine was beginning to wear on her. Kids her age were eating out on their own, stuffing fast food into their faces, worrying about acne, and wondering if a certain boy noticed how she did her hair that day. But she was no ordinary girl, a fact that would come back to haunt her day after day. Particularly on this day.

She first noticed something was wrong when her eyesight started to blur, the edges of her vision slowly fading out of focus and spreading slowly across her entire field of view. The unrelenting pace of the vision loss was unstoppable; she rubbed her eyes hard, digging her palms roughly against her sockets, hearing the squish of air as she forced it out. Still the blurring spread. Next she began to feel a numbness expanding through her neck, seeping into her shoulders. Her eyes began to burn, pain searing through the back of her eyeballs, and the ambient light of the room was suddenly blindingly bright. The throbbing pain in her forehead felt like someone was taking a hammer to her skull, and without warning, she vomited on the table and floor. The curious side of her wondered what color it was, as it tasted of rust and blood, but with her waning vision, she was unable to see much of anything. Even now, she could begin to feel her limbs go numb, sensations fading into weightlessness. Was this what it felt like to die, she wondered. Her lips moved lifelessly, and she heard the distant echoes of voices around her. Her vision sharpened for just a moment, and she saw Linda's worried face looking down at her, in a heated panic as tears ran down her face. She was yelling at the doctors around her to do something, but they could do nothing but watch as Sherry died.

--

"Dead at fifteen," marveled one of the doctors. Shaking his head in disbelief, he made sure to return to his dinner before it got cold.

"What is wrong with you people," yelled Linda, clutching Sherry in her arms. Everyone stared blankly at her. "You didn't do a damn thing to help her!"

"Even a first year med student recognizes an aneurysm," answered one of the younger doctors as he stepped forward from the crowd. "There is nothing you can do when it happens," he said gently, kneeling down beside her. He had always had a crush on Linda, despite everyone else's opinions of her. He admired her passion and toughness, the same things just about everyone else disliked about her.

"You didn't—you didn't even try," she sobbed.

"Come on, let's get her to the med center," he said, reaching to take Sherry from her arms. Linda pulled her away, lifting the girl's body herself. She went to the door without looking back. The young man quickly followed her when he saw no one else make a move to help.

In the hallway, Linda had composed herself some, wiping her mascara black tears with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, Carter," she said, staring past him.

"It's ok," he replied. "I know how much Sherry meant—means to you." He reached out, and Linda gave up Sherry's inert body to him. Carter had never been what people would call a large man, but he held the small girl in his arms like she were a sleeping baby. Linda laughed, a sad, tearful laugh without joy or sorrow, the laugh of one who needs desperately to find humor at that moment.

"She never finished her food," she said, her words soft. "Even now, she looks just like a child."

"Come on," said Carter, and she followed him without saying another word.

"Stop right there," said a stern voice behind them. The two turned to face Dr. Hall, who had two unfamiliar men behind him, large and menacing enough to be considered goons. "What happened here?"

"Sherry had an aneurysm, doctor," replied Carter. "We're taking her to the med center for treatment."

"Why is that, Carter? You know as well as I that a brain aneurysm is fatal," Hall said absently, not realizing he'd said too much.

"How do you know…it was in her brain," asked Linda, the realization slowly dawning upon her. "You son of a bitch…YOU SON OF A BITCH!" she howled as she lunged at Hall, her fingers like talons as she clawed viciously at his squirming face. The two unknown men stepped forward, restraining her easily, as Hall fell down, panting furiously.

"Restrain yourself, Linda," he said, straightening his tie as he stood up. "These things happen," he calmly added as the woman struggled against the armed guards' hold.

Linda snarled wordlessly, her eyes burning hot with tears as she swore incoherently at Dr. Hall, spitting violently in the face of a man she had once respected and trusted. The men dragged her off, and Carter looked dumbly at Hall.

"It had to be like this," he finally asked, his words weakly faint.

"You know as well as I do, Carter," replied Hall, calmly wiping Linda's spit from his face with an expensive silk handkerchief. "That girl had to die."

--

Despite the dullness extending to every inch of her body, Sherry was completely aware of the world about her. Her senses seemed crystallized and focused, crossing with one another to create a hybrid blend of familiar sensations altered, like a light shining through a prism. She could see wafting smells, hear the sensation of touch, feel and taste the sounds about her. It was a delirium she had read about in one of Linda's psychological journals, and the symptoms matched those of chronic hallucinogen users. Lying there in Carter's arms, she heard the exchange between Linda and Hall, their words distantly hollow like an echo through a long, cavernous tunnel. She couldn't make out most of the words, but she could feel Linda's rage, her passion and energy. Hall was, as usual, icy, the emotion of apathy and disinterest pouring out of his heart. Somehow though, Sherry could taste his sweat, nervous energy shuddering through his body and running down his back in rivulets. She could see his heart beat quickening; an aura of weak, flickering energy about him.

The taste of her dinner still lingered in her nostrils, and yet she hadn't taken a single bite of it. She often pushed entire meals aside untouched, content with a soda and late night snack. Linda had often chastised her for nutrition's sake, but then she would later heat up hot chocolate for her and sneak her junk food after everyone else was asleep. It was a strange relationship. Sherry had never quite known if Linda truly cared for her, but now, with her burgeoning senses, she could feel Linda's loving aura, her compassionate energy. The realization mattered little now, however, for it was too late to matter.

--

The very concept of time was lost on Sherry in her state, despite the deafening tick of the clock reminding her. A buzzer sounded off every hour, but she had no memory of when the last one rang. Blank eyes stared down at her as she lay on the cool morgue slab, eyes emptier than her own peering intently at her tranquil face.

"Sherry, my dear," cooed the doctor, his bulging eyes creepily taking in her every detail. "Such a pretty girl," he added, stroking her hair gently. "So much like your mother…"

His touch felt oddly comforting, the static electricity of the contact sending a feeling throughout her body that wasn't entirely repugnant. And yet, trapped within the confines of her unmoving body, the young girl Sherry felt an overwhelming urge to scream.

"I loved her, you know," he said, turning to his rack of tools. "Your mother was such a driven woman, so devoted to that fool William. He may have been brilliant, but he had no idea of her wants, her needs." He held a needle up to the florescent light, admiring the amber colored fluid within the cylinder.

He sighed. "Such a tragedy; mother and daughter dying far before their time, and all because of one man's grandiose ambitions." His face was inches from hers now, and he breathed in her scent deeply. "But what they don't know won't hurt them, right my dear," he asked aloud, caressing her lifeless lips with his fingertips.

Sherry's eyes bore through the man. She could see veins and arteries in his bony face, the stream of blood as it coursed through his body, one place to another like a living wire. A thin filament of white skin disappeared under her eyes, the muscles like wax paper under her gaze. She could hear the sound of the needle digging into her cold flesh, the rumbling echo of the plunger forcing that strange fluid into her corpse.

The doctor's back was turned when she sat up suddenly on the morgue slab. The white sheet he had laid across her naked body fell to the ground, and he turned at the sound. His eyes opened in surprise, an elated joy like he had known this would happen. He opened his mouth to tell her that this was how he pictured it happening, but her fingers were already jammed into his mouth, reaching down into the back of his throat.

He felt the cold rush of flesh in his mouth, tasting the soap she had used early in the mornings to scrub her skin clean, and began to gag as her fingers dug deeper and deeper. No, it wasn't so much her reaching in, but the fingers _growing_. No human hands could reach as far down as hers were; he could feel her nails tickling the base of his esophagus. But there was no such gentleness to it. A squirt of icy cold fluid shot down into his stomach, and he began to lurch even more.

A vague smile touched the girl's lips, the grayish color beginning to fade as lifeblood began to once again flow through her veins. She brought her other hand up to the gasping man's mouth, grasping one side of his mouth with each hand. Her eyes glowed yellow for a moment as she pulled her hands apart sharply, peeling the man's face in two. The doctor collapsed in a heap, his senses reeling as he choked on his own blood. He watched as she walked slowly away, her dainty footsteps burning smoking imprints into the tiled surface of the floor before she cast one last, smoldering look over her sleek shoulder at his dying form. It was in that moment that he saw she was truly her mother's daughter.

The thing that had once been Sherry Birkin stopped when it caught its reflection in a long mirror. Color was slowly returning to her pale flesh, but more of a green hue than a healthy human red. The veins stood out against her ashen skin, a purple color running through the network of blood vessels. Appearance mattered little to the creature, however, as it stepped into the main hallway and began to walk silently towards the residence hall.

--

"Carter, did you know about this," asked Linda, her hands clutching the bars of her holding cell so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"How can you even ask me that, Linda," he answered, seated on the open side of the bars. "I've never been so bored about a project as to want to kill someone over it."

"It's not about being bored, it's about covering your own ass."

"I have no fears. Moreover, I have no culpability when it came to this project. My brother is a lawyer, and told me I have plausible deniability regarding this case…if it ever were a case, of course."

"So you were looking out for yourself…"

"Of course. Anytime you play in a shady area of the law, it's best to get advice beforehand."

"Morality be damned, is that it?"

"You worked here too, Linda," he reminded her. "It's not like what we were doing was morally wrong, or inherently evil."

"Maybe so, but—" she began, her words cut off by a shrill cry from the hallway.

"Holy shit, what was that," he asked, rising from his chair and walking to the door. Pressing his face against the small glass panel of the door, he looked side to side down the long hallway. With his hand on the door, he turned back to Linda, herself pressed anxiously at the bars.

"What was it, Carter?"

"I don't know, I—" his voice turned to a scream as he tumbled out of her field of view, disappearing through the swinging hallway door as his petrified screams faded away to silence.

--

Chaos had overtaken the facility. Fires raged out of control, dying sprinklers futilely dribbling water, broken rubble strewn across once spotless floors. Researcher and doctor alike fell about in a blind panic, running for their lives from the monsters that had seemingly appeared out of thin air.

The Birkin creature strode down the main hallway now, her body ablaze with vengeful fire as she butchered person after person. The doctor that had hurried back to his meal when she lay dying felt her hand rip into his stomach, sharp claw-like appendages tearing his intestines out and spilling them onto the floor in a wet splash. His cries of pain went unheeded, except when she stopped to stick a dangling tendril of her own growing flesh into his open mouth, planting another seed. Those that she seemingly spared were chased down by the hatching parasites; small, lightning fast blobs of green flesh that birthed in a splattering spray of blood.

Carnage raged throughout the entire complex, the doctors and researchers trapped in the small residence section, those lucky enough to reach the exit pounding feebly against steel enforced doors held shut by a lump of pulsing green flesh. Like rats in a cage, Sherry and her newly hatched spawn took their time decimating the scientists, their weeping pleas for mercy falling deafly on inhuman ears.

An explosion rocked the entire wing as Hall's squad blew the exit doors apart. He had eighteen of the best trained soldiers money could buy, and they were armed to the teeth, ready to take on this creature. Hall cowered behind them, eventually deciding to watch from the safety of the security center. The men lined up in two rows at the only exit, the front nine kneeling as they raised their assault rifles. A dead silence fell over the entire area, the spurt of electricity from a torn out socket the only sound. Small, scattered fires roared quietly throughout the wing, and the death gurgles of the last few scientists echoed softly through the halls.

A figure suddenly appeared around the corner, clad in a stark white coat that suddenly exploded in a spatter of red under the relentless hail of gunfire from the soldiers. The scientist fell to the ground, dead several times over. The men didn't dwell on their mistake, nor hesitate as they reloaded their rifles. A long shadow stretched around the corner, someone slowly approaching their position. Then it stopped, standing still just out of their view.

The soldiers shook with anticipation, knowing their target was just around that corner, fighting their desire to chase it down and kill it. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, the unit commander silently ordered them to hold position with a wave of his hand. He then used the extra time to load his hollow-point rounds, and instructed the back nine fire team to do the same. Hall could go to hell with his demand for a live sample. Anything that can do what he had seen was better off erased from existence. And these bullets would help; with this amount of firepower, they could reduce a boulder to dust.

He noticed something, then, along the floor. It was a thin, winding crack that ran the entire length of the hallway, and it was quickly expanding as it stretched towards them. Too late, he realized what it was, as a shard of snaking bone erupted from the floor's crack, tearing their ranks apart as it easily impaled three of his men. Whatever professionalism the men had exhibited vanished in that moment, firing their automatics into their own ranks, trying to stop that twisting worm of death. The dying men barely had a chance to scream before it was gone, disappearing back into the hole it had come through. As the survivors fought to collect themselves, the ceiling above them collapsed in a shower of hungry parasites that fell upon the men, feasting and gorging on their flesh. The shadow began to move again, and the Birkin creature leaned against the corner, its entire body caked with blood as it smiled distantly at the ensuing carnage.

--

"Holy mother of god," gasped a terrified Dr. Hall. He had seen the whole massacre unfold via security camera, and his body shuddered at what he had witnessed. An entire battalion of soldiers wiped out by a single girl? This was getting way over his head. He reached for the communication panel and dialed a number hastily. A familiar face appeared on the screen, a face he knew from long ago that had changed little over the years.

"Wesker, my god…she's become active…you have to help me," he begged, all his earlier pride gone.

"And who might that be, doctor?"

"Christ, you know who! Birkin's daughter—Sherry…mutated and is butchering everyone here!"

"Oh my, what a dreadful situation. But what could someone like me do about something like that?"

"I don't know, but you gotta help me," he pleaded, panic giving way to cold, cunning logic. "I don't—I don't want to have to tell people what I know about you, or your silent partner—"

"Threats, Richard? How very unlike you," Wesker interrupted. "You must be in more trouble than I thought," he said, something like sympathy seeping into his words.

A ray of light. "So you'll help?"

"How long have we known each other, Richard?"

"Since our university days, Albert. And I've always held you in high regard…"

"And in all that time, have you ever known me to help someone when they could offer me nothing of value…? Although…I should thank you for reminding me that you are already far too versed regarding my…business relationships. So why, pray tell, should I help you when I benefit so much more from your death?"

"I know things, Albert…things I never told anyone! Things of great value to you! Please…"

"Perhaps. But those things are already available to me…"

"What do you mean?"

Wesker laughed, a cold heartless chuckle. "You honestly think you were the only person I bought off in your little project, considering the risks of our business? Let's not insult one another now, not after all we've been through…"

And there it was: the last bit of hope snatched away. "You son of a bitch! Fuck you Wesker! You dickless piece of maggot shit cocksucker motherfucker! You—"

"Goodbye, Richard," Wesker said somberly. "Oh, and if you try to use another outside connection after this, bear in mind that I already have seized control of your com-line. So no more phone calls, please. Try dying with some dignity."

As Hall launched into another tirade aimed at Wesker, he saw the screen turn blank as the link died. Turning the power switch futilely, he heard only dead static. The monitors surrounding him shut off a moment later, leaving him in the dim darkness of the room. Wesker had cut the lines.

So lost was he in his rabid panic, Hall never noticed the door behind him begin to open.

--

Darkness fell over the eastern wing at a slow, deliberate pace. The rows of lights died like falling dominoes, one after another, so by the time the last bit of luminescence faded in the holding cells, Linda was already waiting for the gloom. It did little to assuage the oppressive feeling of claustrophobia threatening to overtake her, however, so she forced herself to take deep breaths. Despite her short medical career, she had seen countless patients panic, and she had always advised them to first control their breathing; it was only fair she take her own advice when faced with the same situation. But when she felt some_thing_ brush lightly against her hand, her lungs struggled to leap from her very chest.

It wasn't real, she told herself, just a frightened psyche playing with her. She had hoped her eyes would eventually focus in the murkiness of the dark, but after countless minutes in the breathless dark, she began to wonder if she would spend the rest of her life surrounded by inky blackness.

Again, she felt movement in the room, this time closer. It was like a wisp of wind, swift and invisible, but she could _feel_ it, as certain as she felt the terror in her heart…there was something in the room with her, something homing in on her position. What had pulled Carter into the hallway? From her vantage point, she had seen nothing, only heard desperate pleas for help that never came. But that door never swung open again; her keen ears would have picked up on that in an instant. No, whatever was in here was in here already. Perhaps a rat? No, the facility had an elaborate vermin eliminator system; she had never seen so much as a cockroach in her years there.

Behind her now, a whisper of air. Whatever it was, it had somehow gotten behind her and trapped itself in the corner of her cell. Linda backed away until the bars bit into the flesh of her back, the realization that she was trapped in a locked cell with something, something that had possibly killed Carter ravaging her every thought process. She wanted to scream so badly that it came out in a voiceless shriek, her need unfulfilled. Fumbling through her pockets, she searched anxiously for anything of use. The guards had frisked her earlier before depositing her in the cell, but that logical memory gave way to raw, desperate panic. Her fingers closed around something small, and by the time she drew out her hand, she knew what it was: a withered pack of matches.

Timidly lighting one, she stepped cautiously towards the rear of her cell. The flickering glow of the match shuddered despite the still air in the room, and the dim light was sputtering as it burned downwards. Realizing it was going to go out soon, she tossed the still lit match in the direction of the noise. It died before landing, draping the cell again in murky darkness.

Taking one more step forward, she drew another match from the pack, striking it against the flint. Another step and she was a mere three feet from the dark corner, the only place the thing could be. The light began to wilt, and she recoiled in pain as she felt the searing lick of the match dying between her fingers. She cursed silently, instinctively bringing the fingers to her mouth. Drawing them out, she again reached into the pack, removing the last match.

The tip exploded in a tiny ball of fire, and her eyes peered into that corner. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing there. As she began to turn away, she saw what she had thought to be a piece of the wall suddenly peel away and dart past her. Spinning to follow its path, she came to face a person she never thought she would see again, someone she had took for dead. Able to find her voice this time, she used it and screamed.

* * *

_Note: I have to admit, I loved some of gorier parts of this chapter. The creepiest part for me to write was the doctor about to perform the autopsy; I had thought about taking it a bit further, but I thought the implication was enough. I think my favorite scene in this chapter is when Linda realizes what Hall did. I honestly welled up with emotion when I wrote those few lines, a mixture of anger and sadness. I hope you felt some suspense in that scene with Linda in the dark. I've never really tried scaring the audience, but figure it's a good thing to learn. So if you felt fear or boredom, let me know! _

_For observant File 2 players, you'll notice I used the names Linda and Carter from "End of the Road" for two of the doctors. It's just in name only, especially if you consider how that scenario ended. I took most of the doctor's descriptions and names from people I know. And the Hall I know is actually a nice guy who loves kids. ;)_

_I decided to dedicate this entire chapter to Sherry and the researchers. I was thinking of having Leon and Claire looking over the burnt out remains of the facility, but instead opted to jump around with the main players within the facility. Only one is from a canon RE game (besides Wesker's short cameo), but I hope you found the interaction interesting still. _


	18. Picking up the trail

_**Picking up the trail**_

"Those guys just can't seem to keep anything running for long, can they," she asked over the roar of the tiny airplane.

"Contrary to what you might think, the facility was abandoned for cost production reasons, not because they were overrun by an outbreak," replied the voice over the radio.

"Is that according to the press release," she smirked. For the first time since the mission began, she was glad for the WWII era surplus communications equipment she was forced to procure, as Wesker couldn't see her mocking expression.

"According to their books," he replied, unaware of her insincerity.

"Speaking of which, you really need to start investing in a decent PR team," said Ada over the radio static. "People aren't going to buy into these little operations of yours unless they have interesting names; you know, names like 'Resistance Wave' or 'Enduring Freedom'. You're falling behind all the other megalomaniacs."

"What in the world are you talking about," he asked, his growing annoyance evident.

"Just something I've been hearing around the water cooler," she replied absently, rechecking her equipment.

"If you could focus on the task at hand…?"

She sighed. "You're no fun these days."

"And your usefulness is beginning to be outweighed by your tendency for brevity," he said, ending the bantering exchange.

Ada sat petulantly in the corner of the noisy biplane, sulking. She knew Wesker couldn't see her mope with the aged radio equipment, but some tendencies died hard.

"You're nearing the destination point. Once you're on the ground, I want you to setup the new communication device I gave you earlier."

"Yeah, yeah," she answered, strapping another pack to her body. "You're lucky you never have to lug your own equipment."

"You'll be thankful to have my eyes and ears on this mission."

"Why, your extensive briefings aren't enough preparation these days?"

"You never know what might…come up on a mission."

"My, that certainly is reassuring."

"Your sarcasm is duly noted. Keep in mind you have my considerable information network behind you. Has it ever failed you before?"

Searching her memory, Ada realized he was right. He had always prepared her for every eventuality going into a mission, no matter how seemingly insignificant a detail might have seemed. Even that time with the Bandersnatch, it had been her own dawdling that nearly got her killed. Still, she would never admit this to him.

"I'm at the jump point," she replied. "Over and out."

She went to the back of the plane before he could reply, releasing the catch on the side door and sliding it open. The pilot was dipping low, but still a little too high for her taste. He was the best money could buy, but amidst a limited pool of a whopping three pilots in the entire area, that wasn't saying much. The facility definitely redefined the meaning of the word "remote", steeped deeply in the jungles far beyond the brim of civilization. Nearby locals claimed a race of cannibals lived in that region, and had thus moved far away several decades ago. The nearest village was over 200 miles from her destination, and no one was crazy enough to get any closer. Money still held the same allure across international borders, however, as Ada had slipped the eager pilot a handful of crisp $50 bills, promising him the other half upon the completion of her mission. From the excitement in his eyes from just the first half, though, she wondered if he would even stick around for the second half.

--

The steamy jungle winds caressed her face as she leaned out the opening, staring down at the expanse of rolling verdant greens below her. Dark hair whipped about her face, and the disorienting pitch of the rickety biplane disappeared behind her as she leapt from the side. Spreading her arms out, she opened the flaps Wesker's R&D team had installed into her newly designed dive suit, searching for the upwind that tossed her rigid body upwards before dropping her once again. Her terminal velocity slowed, she released the mini chute attached to her hip, descending gently to the soft earth. Wesker had insisted on using the prototypes, a compact parachute invisible to the naked eye coupled with the drafts on the suit. Of course Wesker would never test the hardware himself, though.

Dropping to one knee, Ada slide the constrictive blue sky suit from her body to reveal a light green undersuit. She had asked for a sleeveless version, but after considering the tropical insects and thick underbrush, she decided a little bit of sweat wasn't that bad after all. Opening the communicator box, she drew out the small harness, strapping it carefully to her shoulder. After removing the cap on the lens, she slid the ear and mouthpieces into place. Lastly, she fired the relay device into the top of the tallest tree in the area, hoping Wesker's satellite would pick up on her signal. The thought of Wesker having his own satellite tickled her fancy; she imagined him molding it to even look like himself, sunglasses and all. A gigantic Wesker floating over the world and lording over it from space…that was just too much. She burst out laughing.

"Something amusing, Ada," Wesker asked over the headset. She was unaware she had even turned it on.

"Just showing my usual zest for life, Wesker," she replied, the slightest hint of a smile still touching her lips. Now that their channel was completely secure, they could use one another's name. "How's the visual?"

"It's slightly out of focus, but it is most likely due to the humidity."

"Well, there's more than enough of that to go around," she said, wiping some dampness from her forehead. The plane had been hot and uncomfortable, especially with the pilot constantly leering at her lithe figure, but this was just unbearable. It was easily 20 degrees hotter down here, even in the shade. "Ever think about investing in a prototype air conditioned suit?"

"Comfort over utility…I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to hear that from you."

"It's what you get for spoiling me all the time," she said, snapping the last bit of her equipment into place. "I'm ready to move."

"Very well," replied Wesker. "You are only half a kilometer from the facility. Move northeast from your position."

Ada hated to admit it, but it was somewhat comforting to have her own personal navigator, even if it was Wesker's icy voice leading her along. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was the same voice that led many a person to his or her doom.

"That means the damn pilot overshot the target point," she muttered. "Waste of money."

"You could have jumped earlier," Wesker reminded her.

"Speaking of our pilot…what happens if our good man Rodrigo isn't at the extraction point when I get out of here? What if he just takes the money and runs?"

"I suppose you have a very long walk ahead of you."

"Funny man, Wesker. Forgetting something?"

"Ah, the serum. No worries, Ada. My scientists have synthesized a new, stronger strain of the serum, so your last dosage will last twice as long."

"Twice as long…?" Her thoughts began to race.

"It's still only a day's worth of time. Not long enough for a two hundred mile trek, I'd imagine. Even for me."

"You wouldn't want me walking off with whatever I find either, right," she muttered. He didn't seem to hear.

He laughed his hollow chuckle that she hated so. "Have no fear, Ada. I have a pilot on reserve less than fifty miles from you. I am also keeping regular contact with your favorite pilot Rodrigo. He knows better than to run out on me."

"Wait…you know the guy? Then why'd I have to pay him off?"

"To keep appearances. Men don't like to be reminded that they are in fact owned by another."

"Couldn't agree more," Ada replied, her own heart racing. A serum that lasted twice as long? If Wesker started producing those instead, he'd have a surplus of the older, weaker serum on hand somewhere. If she could get her hands on that stock…betraying Wesker suddenly didn't seem so impossible.

Her thoughts returned to the mission at hand. While Wesker had given detailed instructions on the scenario, he gave her no information about what it was exactly that she was looking for. Ada suspected it had something to do with the Birkin girl; Wesker had been maniacally secretive about her escape over a year ago, but his desire to be constantly 'in the know' when it came to this op betrayed his anxious intentions. He'd always kept a watchful eye on Ada, but he made it no secret that she was completely expendable when it came right down to it. So why start caring now, burdening her with an observation device?

Hiking in silence, she sighted a low hill thick with trees and vines. She crouched low and trotted up the peak, coming to a mass of rocks. Squeezing between a narrow crack, she reached the other side of the hill and saw a building far below her, tucked away in the recesses of a small mountain. With a sigh, she began her long climb downwards.

--

Whatever it had once been, it was nothing but burnt out rubble now, a charred skeleton broken in more places than not. Besidesfire, the rugged elements of the country had done their best to wipe away any other traces of humanity. A chilly autumn wind carried through the ruined remains.

"We're not going to find anything here," complained Leon.

"We just got here," reminded Claire, her eyes and flashlight alertly scanning every inch of the ruined site.

"The police chief told me they went over the remains a dozen times already, and found nothing of use."

"That's because they didn't know what to look for," argued Claire, kicking away a burnt out piece of metal. "Cops never do," she added absentmindedly.

Leon looked at her, about to say something, but decided it wouldn't matter. He knelt and began to sift through the rubble. "The blueprints on record in the town hall don't seem to match what we have here," he said, scratching his head.

"You mean lots of additions and mods," she asked, walking to his side. Feeling her warmth huddled beside him against the chilly wind, Leon was glad she had decided to come back to help him with the search. He had been trying to get time off from the organization for nearly a month to start checking up on Jill's leads, but Claire had been the kick-start he needed to stop finding excuses. She had flown in from Dublin two days earlier and practically dragged him from the offices of the O.R.E. Carlos and the other guys got a kick out of it, Carlos especially appreciating the kick-ass-take-charge young woman.

"Dude, she is waaaay too hot for you," his friend had said, nudging him in the ribs. Claire was helping one of the other guys with the engine on his vintage Harley, the oil and grease making her almost aglow with vitality. The two men sat and watched from afar on the steps of the barracks, squinting against the sunlight.

"What do you mean, we're just friends," Leon said, remembering his confused feelings from the past few months. Thoughts of Ada constantly waged war with his thoughts of Claire. Ada, for all her negative qualities, had died so that he could live. Claire, for all her great qualities, wasn't dead. It was hard for him to take risks romantically; Ada was safe, their feelings a cherished memory never tarnished by her lies and deceit. With Claire, it was all an unknown, a risk he wasn't sure he wanted to, or could, take.

"Of course you are," laughed Carlos. "She's completely out of your league."

"I thought we were supposed to friends too?"

Carlos looked at him hesitantly before leaping up before him. "You're right, hombre. So I'll give you hand," he said, looking Leon over. "First off, you gotta lighten up and learn to take the ribbing."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be so straight-edge serious, man! Beautiful chicas like that don't want to bang moody boy scouts. You're a pretty tough guy, which the chicks love, but you gotta let loose once in awhile, padre. Even if you don't get her jokes, just laugh 'em off! Just read her and you can tell when she wants you to laugh."

Leon thought over his friend's words. "I can do that," he said, wondering if he really could. "What else?"

"Maybe I should've said this first, because it's probably more important than that…"

"You know, you're coming up with these faults of mine awfully quick."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help…"

"Alright, alright…lay it on me."

"Your walk, man. You gotta get a new walk, and right soon."

"What's wrong with my walk?"

"You walk like a Popsicle, man."

"…That doesn't even make sense."

"You got the 'walking with a purpose' thing down good, but you're like a walking corpse. A fuckin' zombie, man. You know what I'm talking about."

"…Speaking from extensive personal experience, I can most definitely say I do _not_ walk like a zombie."

"Yeah, you'd be lucky to walk like some of the zombies I've seen," laughed Carlos.

"…Shove it, Carlos."

"Ah ah, remember lesson one," he reminded with a wagging of his finger. "Go with the flow, hombre. Nothing bad can happen then. And if it does, fuck it. Keep that in mind and your walk comes naturally, like this," he said, demonstrating as he strutted back and forth in front of Leon's watchful eyes.

"Your walk isn't that special…"

"Lucky for me, I got this sexy accent the chicas can't resist," Carlos replied, exaggerating the swing of his arms as he pranced in front of Leon. "So my walk isn't as important," he added, as a long shadow fell over the two.

"Am I interrupting something," Claire asked from behind him, wiping her sooty hands with an old rag. Carlos' face reddened, and before another word could be spoken, he sprinted away like a flash of lightning without looking back.

"What was _that_ all about," asked Claire, sitting down beside Leon as she untied her ponytail, letting the long brown locks fall about her shoulders. A soft waft of scented shampoo lingered in the air as she ruffled her thick hair.

"He was just giving me advice on something," answered Leon.

"Oh? On what," she asked demurely, leaning back to bathe in the sun's warmth.

"On something he apparently knows nothing about," smiled Leon.

--

"Are you sure about that," asked Claire warily, standing beside him as the shrill wind bit at them. "Where did you get the blueprints?"

"Right here," answered Leon, handing her a manila folder. "Friend of a friend in the county clerks office got this for me," he added, a bit of pride in his voice.

"Aren't these public record," Claire wondered aloud, too intent on the paperwork for his reply. "I see what you mean…if these are all additions, there are more additions than there was here to start with."

"Like building a mansion around a phone booth," added Leon. "Or an outhouse."

"Thanks for that lovely visual," Claire said, closing the folder with a snap. "Whoever owned this place must've known this kind of inconsistency would pop up sooner or later."

"Maybe they figured they'd be long gone by the time someone did."

"Even if they didn't plan for it, it certainly turned out that way."

"Wait…you don't think was part of some elaborate plan to make us lose Sherry's trail, do you?"

"Looks that way to me."

"Or, maybe the building just burned down."

"Let me guess your next words…'with Sherry still in it'."

"Why would I say that?"

"Because you want this wrapped up neatly?"

"That's not fair."

"Neither is Sherry losing everyone in her life."

"I'm just saying, it ought to be a possibility to consider. Besides, there's no proof Sherry was even here…"

Claire thought that over for a moment. "Did the police find the remains of a young girl?"

"No, but their forensic report says the heat, combined with the collapse of the roof, was enough to disintegrate any traces. There were a lot of bodies to dig through, half a dozen bodies never recovered."

"…Out of how many?"

"Let me see," he said, opening another folder. "Seventeen."

"So there were twenty three people here, and they were all adults? Doesn't sound like a 'family farm' to me."

"These records have it listed as a medical care hospice and residence."

"With no actual patients? Come on."

"Maybe it was a slow month."

"And they had twenty something doctors on call?

"There's still no way we can know for certain if this is where Sherry was, Claire."

"It has to be, Leon. All those other sites didn't have the landmarks she mentioned in her letters, or didn't fit the bill at all. This is the last one."

"We could be on the wrong trail altogether too, you know."

"It's not," she replied with a surprising degree of certainty. "I can feel it; she was here."

Leon fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, Claire, I know you're worried that this might be a dead end, but there are other leads we can follow. We need evidence here, not a gut feeling."

"Leon," said Claire, staring fiercely at him. "Look around you! A burnt out facility far bigger than it should be, missing bodies, and the guise of a hospital with no patients! What is your instinct telling you?"

"I'm not saying it isn't curious, but I do think we should consider all possibilities," he replied calmly.

Something in his tone quieted her. "What do we know about the owner of this property," she asked.

He flipped through the thin folder twice, a curious look on his face.

"Apparently nothing. There's nothing in here about a land or building owner."

"That's impossible," she said, snatching the open folder from his hands. She thumbed through it herself, rechecking it once before closing it. "Ok, so this file is incomplete. What now?"

"I'd say we hit the records office and backtrack the paper trail until we find this property owner," he suggested, looking at his watch. "But the office is closed by now, and for the weekend." Claire smiled as she reached into her jacket.

"No problem," she said, holding up a shiny tool in the dim light. "You just gotta know what doors to knock on…or more importantly, _how_ to knock on them."

"Dammit, Claire…please tell me that's not what I think it is…"

"Got a better idea? You have to be back by Monday, and I don't want to put this off for two more days," she shrugged. "Besides," she added with a mischievous grin. "What better way to spend a Friday night?"

"You ever see what they eat in jail?"

"Please show _some _faith, Leon," she replied, unperturbed. "I'm way better at it now, practically an artist."

"Ah, the fine art of breaking and entering…and have you considered the alarm?"

"You think this hillbilly county would spend any more money than they have to for guarding _public _records? They can't even afford traffic lights…"

He sighed, realizing she was probably right. "Fine, then…but let's make this quick, ok?"

--

The building seemingly cowered under the rolling shadows of the hills, its diminutive size making it easy to pass without notice. Long, withered greens draped over its roof, obscuring the building even more. The front door appeared to be rusted shut from decades in the tropical climate, but a front door approach was never Ada Wong's style.

"The exterior looks relatively untouched," Wesker said over her headset. She started at his sudden voice; it would take her a long time to get used to him watching her from, literally, over her shoulder.

"And drab," she added, composing herself. Running a gloved finger along the building's edge, she rubbed a rusty colored substance between her fingers. "I take it they didn't treat the building for this weather long term…"

"That is possible," replied Wesker. "As a cost-cutting procedure, Umbrella uprooted another facility to insert here."

"Wait…Umbrella cut and pasted a _building_? Doesn't sound cheaper to me."

"It was in piecemeal, and the overseer of the transfer was unfamiliar with designing in regards to the clime. He was later caught…misappropriating company assets for his own research, which is why he insisted on the remoteness of this area. So it's almost as if the project was doomed from the beginning."

"I see Umbrella hiring standards haven't improved over the years," mumbled Ada.

"This was nearly three decades ago, Ada, when the company was struggling to stay afloat. Pharmaceuticals weren't big business yet…at least not as you see them today. In fact, that indiscretion on the designer's part was a significant step forward for Umbrella's research on the G Vir—"

Ada could sense another history lecture coming on, so she began to quicken her pace. Swinging swiftly over the roof, she landed lightly on her feet in a low crouch. Damp shade hung over the top, and it was a relative relief compared to the sauna outside. Ada heard the whirl of Wesker's electronic eye, the lens laboring to adjust to the sudden loss of ambient light.

Letting her own eyes adjust to the shadows, she began to slink forward towards the entry point Wesker had found in the building's blueprints. As she knelt by the top of the shaft, she became dimly aware of eyes watching her; not just Wesker via satellite, but someone else out there in the darkness. Or something.

"Why are you stopping," Wesker asked irately, her hand hovering hesitantly over the steel handle.

Not wanting to give away her position, Ada quietly reached for the button on her shoulder harness, tapping the communicator button quickly. As much as she hated memorizing it, Morse code definitely had its advantages.

"I understand," Wesker replied patiently. "How many?"

She couldn't be sure, but that pervasive feeling just wouldn't go away. The air felt heavier, thicker, the taste of something salty and sweaty in the air. No doubt surrounded, Ada decided to take her chances inside. Lunging for the opening, she tumbled down the shaft as a swarm of screeching, flapping shapes exploded above her.

"Christ, just a bunch of bats,"Ada swore as she slammed roughly onto the floor. The echo of the shaft's collapse reverberated through the building's hallways, a cloud of dust following her downward spiral. Coughing, she rolled alertly to her feet, the ache of her ribs from the fall making her wince in pain.

"Ada…Ada…can you hear me," asked Wesker, his voice growing distant.

"You're breaking up, Wesker," answered Ada, looking around her. She had expected cobwebs and worn down hallways, but was instead met with an almost glossy veneer about the facility. Wesker was right; someone had been there, and recently. "How's the visual?"

"Spotty at best," he replied. "Take a moment to recalibrate and refresh the uplink."

"No time," she quickly responded. "Someone's been here, and they're no doubt coming to check out that commotion." Straightening her ruffled hair, she began to move further into the facility, Wesker's orders lost with the fading signal.

"…Ada…wait…"

--

"Why are you being so cautious," she demanded. There was no mistaking the frustration in her eyes; she was itching for action.

"One of us needs to keep our head on straight," replied Leon, crouched beside her. They were hidden by a thick set of short bushes that ran the length of the side road, a low full moon bathing the countryside in its white glow.

"The people have been gone for _hours_, Leon," retorted Claire.

"There is probably a janitor on duty," Leon added lamely, beginning to question his own caution. "What would we do then?"

"My god, what do they even teach you in this O.R.E. of yours if you can't infiltrate a freaking country bumpkin office building?"

He thought for a long moment. "Well, I can kill someone in about a hundred different ways…"

"Well, at least you know what to do with the janitor…"

"I can't just kill an innocent person, Claire!"

She rolled her eyes. "You are a prince, Leon Kennedy."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she said, sitting back down with a sigh. Feeling her anxious energy temporarily sated, he too returned to a seated position beside her. They sat in silence for long minutes, the only sound between them the howl of the night wind as it swayed across the wide plains.

"So," Leon began gracelessly. "How's your, uh, brother?"

"He's…fine. He was headed for Egypt the last time I spoke to him."

"That's nice. Egypt must be uh, warm this time of year," he said, racking his brain for something to talk about. He heard her chuckle softly at his side. "What's so funny," he asked.

"You should listen to yourself sometime," she replied, and he could hear her rising to her feet. "Someone just left the building, and locked it on the way out," she whispered.

"You sure?"

"I doubt they _un_locked the doors before leaving, if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I meant," he said, getting to his knees, thefrozen ground unforgiving. He wished he had brought his kneepads. But then Claire might razz him even more. He'd gotten more than his share on the ride down, huddled in her motorcycle's sidecar as they cruised down the highway.

"I'm not riding in that thing," he said, as they stood in the parking lot of the O.R.E. offices.

"Why not," she asked, buckling her helmet on and tossing him one.

"It's—it's…I don't know," he replied weakly. "Unseemly."

"Since when did you start caring about what other people thought?"

"Never, that is…I don't. At all."

"Of course you don't. That's why you're wearing that shirt," she said, kicking the bike to life with a grin.

"What's wrong with this shirt," he asked, looking down at the plaid flannel. He had spent all morning picking the shirt out, hoping it'd make him look tougher. And here she was, poking fun at it.

"You better jump in before your buddies see you," she urged, revving the engine over his ensuing arguments. Looking around, he realized he really had no choice in the matter, as he didn't know how to drive a motorcycle, and Claire wouldn't let him even if he could.

"Ok," he sighed, as he crawled in. "Where to first?"

"Sorry, rule #1: sidecar bitch cannot speak unless spoken to," she said with a wink, shredding the asphalt as her bike tore off towards the highway.

--  
_Note: It's amazing to me how quickly this chapter came out, despite being one of my longer chapters. The conversations flowed pretty easily for the most part, except for the one argument between Leon and Claire, which felt a bit erratic. I originally planned to have them part ways there, but I was enjoying their interaction so much that I decided to keep it going for a wee bit longer. My favorite part is Claire's visiting Leon, particularly Carlos giving advice on women; I had this image of an anime character's actions when Claire surprises him, just ridiculously slapstick. Leon is still a bit naïve at this point, but he's slowly gaining confidence, as you'll soon see. I just had to throw in that "Ada…wait!" line, just because I love RE2 so much. Ada waits for no man. _


	19. Lockup

**_Lockup _**

She had the door unlocked and open before he could count ten Mississippis, just as she had promised.

"Holy…" he began, in awe. "You really have gotten better…"

"Have I ever lied to you," she asked slyly. "It was a shitty lock, anyways. I probably could have gotten it open with a pen cap and tampon," Claire added as she pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, but the wind had picked up, buffeting the trees and windows. No one was around for miles, and if they were, they wouldn't hear the two over the noise of the night.

"Did you make sure you didn't damage the lock?"

She sighed. "You go from dumbstruck amazement to gratingly doubtful really quickly, don't you?"

"…I wouldn't say it was 'dumbstruck' amazement," he grumbled, following her through the shrouded doorway.

"I'm guessing you don't want me to turn on the lights," said Claire, tucking her flashlight's end under her shirt to dim the bright light before he could reply.

"It's only good thinking," he said, copying her action with his gloved fingers. She pointed wordlessly to the 'Records' sign, and led the way through a cluttered hallway strewn with folders and cabinets. "I guess neatness isn't a requirement to work here," he mumbled. Leon hated unnecessary messes. Sharing living quarters with the sloppy Carlos was slowly but surely driving him insane.

"Any ideas where we can start," she asked hopefully.

"Well, going from the information we had in the folder, checking the lot's address is probably the best bet."

"Good thinking," said Claire, as she turned to smile brightly at him.

"I have my moments," he replied. Leon wondered if she was really that impressed with his suggestion. He'd had a mind for detective work, but not her quick thinking wits and resourcefulness. They really did complement one another well, he thought.

She stopped at a cabinet just ahead of him, and turned to open a drawer. The rusty hinges creaked loudly, sending a shiver of fear along his back as Claire cringed at the sharp sound.

"Sorry," she whispered meekly. Looking around, she seemed to decide something, yanking it all the way out, the screech of metal like a death cry in the silence. She flashed Leon an unapologetic look.

"Subtle," said Leon, drawing out his flashlight to point down at the files. With no windows in the hallway, they were safe to use their lights. Still, he paid heed to keep the light's edge down low, never pointing down the path they had come from. "See anything?"

"God," she groaned. "Thirty seconds of thumbing through these and I'm already bored."

"Well, get used to it," replied Leon, going methodically through his own stack. "Sherry needs us. She needs you."

"You're right," said Claire, feeling guilty for wasting time. She began to work faster, flipping through the stack at a blinding speed. "Here we go," she said, pulling one from the row.

"That's a match," Leon said, looking at the address and lot number on the folder's edge. "Let's have a look," he added as she opened the folder. "With the name of the owner, we can get a trace on their finances and track them down."

"Leon," she whispered weakly. "I don't think that's going to work…"

"Why not?"

She held the folder up for him to see, and he understood her dismay. The entire file was page after page of blank paper.

--

"I think someone beat us here," she said quietly.

"That's entirely possible," he coolly replied. "But I am curious as to how they could find a facility not even in the company's listed assets, and before us."

"Who knows," wondered Ada. "But there is definitely a group moving through this facility, in a search-and-seizure formation."

"I see…so probably professionals…how many?"

"I would guess a half dozen or so by these tracks. But there might be another squad somewhere else in the facility…"

"If that is the case, I want you to trim down the numbers. A few casualties, and they will no doubt abscond from the area."

"That's quite an assumption, Wesker…besides, I'm equipped for a biohazard, not an anti-personnel situation." No response. "Wesker?"

"I have performed a satellite reconnaissance of the area, and found their helicopter. There is only one, with enough room for nine armed men and a pilot. You should have no problem handling them."

"And an outbreak…have you been able to confirm or deny that possibility?"

"No, I haven't. But considering the limited population in the area, you are most likely safe from harm. Besides, you have the pheromone device I had made for you on your side."

"You _do_ know how to spoil a girl, Albert."

"Does that mean you have accepted the value of my device despite its…unique aroma?"

"Guess we'll have to wait and see," she said, climbing down a long elevator shaft. If there was one thing she hated about infiltration, it was the 'no elevator' policy. Especially with Big Brother Wesker watching, she couldn't screw around like she had in the past. The humidity was dropping as she descended further and further underground, but Ada still felt an oppressive heat about her. Whoever had appropriated this facility, they liked it warm. Which made her wonder why they made no use of the upper levels.

She was about to ask Wesker his input on the oddity when she heard footsteps in the tunnel below her. They were clumsy footfalls, and it sounded like a person fumbling around in confusion. Leaning back on the ladder, Ada could see nothing, only darkness spilling out of the doorway. Maybe someone lost their flashlight, she thought. Anxious for a chance to use Wesker's other new device, she drew a grapple hook from a compartment on her belt, wrapping it around the rungs of the ladder. Testing the slackness of the steel cable, she let herself fall, the device slowing her silent descent. She dropped to the lower level without making a noise, leaving the cable attached in case she needed to make a hasty retreat.

The tunnel was dimly lit at the far end with what appeared to be string lights, like the ones used in Christmas decorations. But that was impossible. Her clear eyes fixed on the lights in the distance, she began to creep forward. A gust of movement behind her, and Ada realized it was too late. Whoever it was, they had made the noise to draw the curious in, and she had foolishly rushed to check on it. Now she felt the cool barrel of a gun on the back of her head, and heard the cock of the hammer.

--

"It's the O.R.E.," she said with conviction.

"What is?"

"They knew we were coming here today…no one else but them. And now we have a file here with blank pages instead of an actual lead."

"Claire, the building burned down a week ago. Whoever did this had ample time to take the documents."

"This is a rush job, Leon," she said, raising her voice. "A week's time, anyone who knows what they're doing will fill this out with bogus bullshit. Not just stick a bunch of blank paper in it to make it look like something's there at first glance!"

"If they were that concerned about us, they would've just tried to keep us from getting in here. Instead, we got in easily—"

As he spoke, a shaft of bright light flooded the room from the outside. The searchlight panned side to side, and the two shielded their eyes with their hands before they knew what was going on. Too late, Leon realized what it was, diving to the floor and pulling Claire down with him.

"It's a police searchlight," he whispered loudly.

"The fuzz? So they _were_ watching for us," she said, shooting him a look.

"Shit…that means they already knew we were here," Leon muttered, and Claire stared at him hopefully.

"So you're starting to see what I'm seeing?"

He shrugged, his inner thoughts in turmoil. "I guess you can only deny so much."

Her only response was a nod. "So what now?"

"Hold on a sec," said Leon. Waiting for the swiveling light to pass overhead, Leon crept up to the window. "I only count three cruisers, which means six, seven cops at most. They're probably setting up a perimeter," he whispered over his shoulder, turning back to Claire, startled to find her face inches from his, her eyes a swimming sea of wild, muted grays.

"Jesus!" he gasped loudly, his face reddening. She could move quietly, that much was clear.

"Sorry," she said, a slight smile on her lips. He got the feeling she wasn't sorry at all. "So we're surrounded, outnumbered, and unarmed, huh," she asked, keeping her head down.

"Looks that way," he replied, looking at her warily. "You can stop grinning, you know."

"What? This just…brings back memories, doesn't it?"

"Why do I always get this feeling that I'm going to die when I'm around you?"

"Deal with your mortality issues later…what do we do now?"

Leon wondered that himself, running a hand through his hair. With Claire's hopeful young face looking up to him for guidance, he realized what had to be done.

"You stay here," he ordered, his voice gaining decisiveness. "I'll set up a distraction in the front, one big enough to get all the surrounding guys running my way. Slip through the back once its clear and loop around the woods. They probably haven't found your bike yet, but wait a while before taking off. Use that side road we saw on the way here, not the main road. I'll probably be out of commission for the weekend, so follow up on the missing persons report from the fire, compare it to the federal database your brother hacked into."

"Wait," she said, nodded at his words. A newfound appreciation for this leadership showed clearly on her face, but still she found the need to resist. "I'm not just leaving you behind."

"Claire," he insisted. "I'll be fine; there's no sense in both of us getting locked away for the entire weekend…and you're the only one who can freely follow up on that lead. And ride that bike of yours," he added, muttering the last part under his breath.

"Leon…" she whispered, her eyes welling up with emotion.

"Besides," he shrugged as he turned to the front entrance. "I was lying before. Jail food isn't actually that bad."

As he turned to make sure she was doing as he had said, he was unexpectedly met with fiery, silken lips rising to meet his own in a surprising and passionate embrace. She flung soft, supple arms around his neck as she pressed against his strong body, her fragrant scent and warm mouth mixing to taste of summer sweet honeyed flowers. Stumbling back in surprise at her sudden fervor, Leon composed himself just in time to give her one tender kiss before heading to the door. Claire took his hand into her own, interlocking his fingers in her own, holding him for just a moment. Understanding the nervous fire in one another's heart, they exchanged one last, knowing smile before he stepped out to meet the advancing men.

--

The first man was heavy set, large bellied and slow. Somehow he had moved his way up to the front line, probably itching for action. Well, he would certainly get some of that tonight, vowed Leon. His hands held high, Leon repeated that he was not armed. When the heavy man stepped within his reach, Leon flattened his hand and thrust his fingertips into the man's jowled throat, forcing the air out in a gasp. Grabbing the man's flailing arm, Leon twisted his body, hurling the man onto the next nearest deputy.

Another fresh-faced deputy swung a police baton at Leon, which he caught easily in his right hand, pulling the younger man off balance and towards his left swinging elbow. The deputy's jaw cracked at the impact, and Leon could feel teeth dislodge. The young deputy fell to the ground, blood spewing from his mouth as he reached for his sidearm.

"No, he's not armed," croaked the fat man, rising to his feet. "Pepper the sonuvabitch," he ordered hoarsely, nursing his raw throat.

Having expected this, Leon was already circling to his left, towards another pair of oncoming deputies that had come running from the back entrance. Pretending not to see them, Leon waited until they were just upon him when he suddenly mule kicked back with his right leg, fracturing three ribs on the closer deputy. Planting his foot in the man's sinking belly, Leon pushed off and spun in the air, flattening the other with a roundhouse kick. He turned back to meet the last men, small black canisters in their eager hands.

"Eat this, you bastard," squealed the one with blood gushing from his broken nose.

"No, wait," yelled the other man, but it was too late. Claire had been right in her underestimation of small town cops. Leon suspected this was the only action they had seen beyond speeding tickets, and the bleeding man's actions confirmed those thoughts. The man had failed to notice Leon position himself upwind, despite that movement allowing a pair of men to nearly flank him. Instinctively bringing his arm up to protect his eyes and nose, Leon heard the howls of the men as the spray was returned to them via the wind.

His eyes watered slightly as he stepped forward into the fading mist, but he had luckily avoided the worst of it. A sweeping side kick took out the two reeling men, who fell in a neat pile. But then the heavy man was brandishing a pistol with his one good arm, a malicious look in his eyes.

"One more step and I shoot your balls off, boy," he said through gritted teeth. "I can always plant a piece on you afterwards." From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow that could only have been Claire stealing away from the building. Relenting, Leon raised his hands and got on his knees.

"Whatever you say, officer," Leon said, his face solemn. "A promising career working for the President…all gone, before it could even start," he muttered under his breath.

"Only the dumbest of the dumb shits resist arrest in _my_ county," said the large man, looming over Leon. Without warning, he brought the butt his pistol down, hard, and Leon sunk into darkness.

--

"What are you doing here," he whispered angrily at her as she sat in the stiff chair across from his cell.

She didn't seem to hear him, trying to get comfortable. "That all they got you with," she asked, pointing at his swollen eye. "That's not so bad," she added, but her carefree words were betrayed by the concern on her face.

"I'm fine," said Leon. "Luckily for me they weren't in any shape to do more."

"Luckily for them they could even walk away after that whooping," she said, clearly impressed by the memory. "You really kicked ass, Leon."

"Claire…it's risky for you to be here," he reminded her sternly, deflecting her compliment.

"Why," she argued. "I was never seen with you at the scene of the crime."

He cringed. "Do you have to call it that?"

"What's the matter, don't like being the _bad boy_," she asked coyly.

"Not exactly…"

"Just think of it like this: the only women who visit the good boys in prison are their mommies."

"This isn't prison, just a holding cell," he said, annoyed. He had called Graham's lawyers hours ago, and still no action. "Besides, mommi—mothers, at least bring cake," he muttered, plopping down on the cot.

"Well, this isn't cake, but I hope it'll do," she said, pulling out a bag of greasy fast food. Leaping up to snatch it eagerly, he tore the paper bag open and immediately began stuffing handfuls of burger and fries into his mouth. He stopped when he saw Claire's bemused expression at his voraciousness, and slowed his binge. "You weren't lying about this jail food," she said, scrunching her nose at the tray of grayish mush by his cell. Examining the food closely, she laughed. "My god, are those _grits_?"

"These bumpkins love that crap," he said, the mere thought of it bringing disdain. "Thanks for the food," he added, holding up a juicy burger in acknowledgement.

She waved her hand. "No need for thanks. Besides, I should be thanking you," she said.

"Thanks from you," he asked, faking an incredulous expression. "That's a first," he grinned.

"Today's full of firsts; I don't think I've ever seen someone enjoy fast food with such…gusto," she shot back.

"This is four star compared to the crap they feed us in the O.R.E."

"Speak of the devil," replied Claire, sitting back down. "What are you going to do about your job?"

He shrugged, putting down a burger. "I've been asking myself that same thing."

"And?"

"I'm going to do exactly what they're doing to me: use them for as long as I can. Use their resources, their equipment, their personnel. If anyone is going to know where Sherry is, it'll be Graham."

"My sentiments exactly…but maybe you should wait until their lawyers spring you before you confront your boss," she suggested.

"That's if they ever get here," he replied, reflexively looking down at his watch. But there was no timepiece there, as the deputies had taken it along with all his other possessions.

"You worried they might not bother with you now that you're a…dangerous felon," she asked with an exaggerated gasp.

"Could you _please_ pick your words a bit more carefully," he asked with a sigh, knowing she wouldn't.

"I'm doing the best I can, babe," she laughed. "Besides," she whispered, leaning towards him. "I got a plan fer springin' ya."

"Ugh, don't tell me you planted a shiv in the food," he said, rubbing his stomach.

"No, but it does involve me attaching chains to your outside bars and my bike…" she said with a wink.

"Look, Claire…I appreciate you coming down here and bringing me food and all, but you should really be on the move now, following up the leads on the missing persons…"

She sighed. "No offense, Leon, but visiting to bring you food isn't the reason I'm here," she confessed. "I can't get a hold of the missing persons reports, especially not those half dozen people. I tried your connection, but he has no access to them. I need someone with real pull to get me in."

"Have you tried cross-referencing the names of the residence list with the obits?"

"First thing I tried. But there were fewer names on the residence than the obituaries…"

"Meaning they weren't accurate in the first place."

"Exactly."

He stroked his chin. "This must extend to all the offices in this region then. Be careful whom you trust," he suggested, his eyes deep with worry.

"Worrying about me, Leon," she asked playfully. "I _am_ a Redfield, after all."

"Just be careful," he asked, his voice gently pleading.

She nodded, her bright eyes locked with his. "I'll be back for you," she promised.

--

"We really should stop meeting like this," she said, seemingly oblivious of the handgun pressed dangerously to the back of her head.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me," retorted the other woman, reaching around to take away Ada's pistol.

"And here I thought we were good friends," cooed Ada. "You point a gun at all your friends' heads?"

"Just keep the hands up, lady," said Claire, agitated at Ada's familiar tone. "You may have helped me on Rockfort Island, but I sure as hell don't trust anyone working with Wesker."

"Wesker…? Who's that," asked Ada, turning around slowly.

"The guy probably on the other end of that headset," replied Claire. "Kill it," she ordered with a wave of her gun.

Ada removed the earpiece, her eyes straining to find the gun's barrel. The younger woman had been waiting in the darkness for a long time, her eyes used to the gloom.

"Who are those other men with you," demanded Claire, her eyes showing no trace of nervousness or agitation. She had learned much over the past months, thought Ada, smiling.

"Look at my equipment," Ada answered. "Do I look like I'm part of a team operation?"

"No…but you don't look like someone who'd work for Wesker either."

"Oh, and what should a Wesker goon look like?"

"You should know."

"I'm sorry to say I don't."

"How did you know who I was before?"

"A little bird told me…"

"Who?"

"There are more players involved in this little game than you could ever guess…"

"And whose side do you work on?"

Ada thought about it for a moment, her eyes softening as her voice dropped to something just above a whisper. "Honestly…I don't know anymore…but if I had to choose one right now, and my life depended on it…"

"Yeah?"

Ada crossed her arms as if in thought, tilting her head back slightly. The younger Redfield kept her eyes intently on the other woman, but made the mistake of watching Ada's eyes to tell if she was being sincere or not. Under her folded arm, Ada reached for the button on the side of her belt.

"Do I have to remind you who has the gun," Claire asked, waving the gun to illustrate her point.

The moment the gun was pointed slightly away from her, Ada leapt forward and simultaneously pushed the retract button on her harness, zipping her towards Claire in a blur of blinding motion. Tucking her body into a ball, Ada flipped forward and came down in a kick, hammering the gun in Claire's hand to the floor as she threw an elbow into the younger woman's temple.

More by instinct than anything else, Claire rolled with the blow, twisting her whole body sideways. Spinning in the air, she braced herself to gather her balance as she smoothly drew her knife. Ada, meanwhile, had taken the slack of the thin steel cord into her hands, forming a small loop with it. As Claire lunged forward to counter with her knife, Ada sidestepped, locking her forearm within the loop. Leaping back, Ada tightened the slack, pinning Claire in the middle of the hallway as she flailed helplessly.

"Drop it or I retract the cable," ordered Ada. "And then you'll lose your pretty little hand."

Claire looked glumly at Ada, her muscles slowly losing their tenseness. As she released the knife reluctantly, Ada began to remove the device from her belt to loosen the slack. But before the knife could hit the ground, Claire quickly kicked the handle of the spinning knife with the toe of her boot and into her free hand. She began to hack desperately at the cable, making Ada laugh.

"You are a piece of work, Claire Redfield," chuckled Ada. "That cable is made of enforced steel fibers; no knife in the world will cut through it—"

Without a second's hesitation, Claire unexpectedly turned and hurled the knife savagely at the laughing spy. Ducking under it, the blade clattered harmlessly off the wall behind Ada.

"Now, that wasn't very nice," she said, tightening the cord's grip enough to make Claire grimace.

"…You're just lucky I had to throw that with my left hand, or you'd have two mouths that talk too much."

"Silly girl, I know you were aiming for my shoulder," replied Ada. "Still too soft for your own good, I see."

Just as Claire was about to reply, a flood of lights appeared at the far end of the hallway, a rush of armed shadows running towards them. Turning back to the shaft, Ada saw another group of men rappelling down it, also armed. Trapped from both sides, she had no choice but to surrender.

--

The simple room was smoky, a handful of important men gathered around a long table. Outside a tall gothic window, rain cascaded down the panels in gentle rivulets. The pattering of falling rain was the only sound, the men holding their collective breath after the bombshell dropped by the man seated at the head of the table.

"Is that a wise course of action, sir? The public opinion since the O.R.E. scandal has been nothing but unfavorable…"

"I am aware of the opinion polls, Wesley," replied the man seated at the head of the table. "I am also aware that the public has a tendency to…forget things when given something new to feed on."

"But what about the other party, sir? They're going to bring it back up every chance they can get, in ads, debates—"

"And they were also the party in power when the prior administration nuked a major US city."

"On _your_ recommendation…sir," added another aide, a sullen black man with tired eyes. "With all due respect, of course."

"Of course, Gerald. I am aware of my own role in that…tragedy, but there is no evidence connecting my recommendation to the President at the time."

"How is that possible, sir? My secretary typed the memo you drafted, and I saw you sign it…" inquired another aide.

"My boy, you think the O.R.E. scandal broke because _I_ messed up," he asked with a gusty laugh. "No, it happened because I _allowed_ it to happen, at that time. True, it was inevitable, but the timing of it occurring towards the end of the current President's administration was no coincidence. As it stands, I've been able to besmirch two administrations while coming out clean, and at crucial times. The public will associate this latest scandal with current President Sears, not hopeful Presidential candidate Graham."

"But I don't understand sir…what about the memos," asked the aide again.

"Gerald, the O.R.E. supposedly operated independently from my orders. So legally, on the record, I have no idea. As far as I know, that document could or could not exist. But now, say a few rogue agents took it upon themselves to vindicate the President's good name by destroying some vital documents…of course, I wouldn't know anything about that. But it could happen."

"Quite a brilliant stroke, Mr. Secretary," admired Gerald. "But what about the agents in question? The legal chain of evidence will connect you as long as they can testify against you."

"Believe me, those men have nothing on me compared to what I have on them…"

"But they could be promised immunity in exchange for their testimony…"

"We'll worry about it if that day comes. As it stands, two criminal liars against the word of the next President of the United States isn't much. Long as there isn't a stained dress," he laughed.

"And what about this latest development…with that scientist's daughter?"

"Ah yes, another valuable piece of ammunition," Graham said thoughtfully. "Imagine if word got out that the President had a private task force brought in to eliminate a teenage girl, a US citizen at that? How poorly would that reflect on his integrity, much less his leadership…?"

"Do we have a picture of the girl?"

"I'm sure Wesley here can dig through the archives and find one. But I've seen her file photos. White, pretty, wholesome…the public will be up in arms when we leak this tidbit to the press."

"And your own involvement, sir," asked Gerald, his lazy eyes deceptively intent on the Secretary's every action.

"My advice to the President has been purely out of our friendship and for the sake of this country. I understand the threat she represents, but of course I am not giving advice from a position of power."

"Meaning, your paper trail results in no legal obligation," finished Gerald, a flash of disapproval in his eyes.

"Jerry, it's too late for her," Graham replied sincerely. "She's killed honest, hard working Americans. She's a threat to national security. Imagine if that virus in her spread…we're talking worldwide panic."

"If it's that serious, maybe it shouldn't be used for political footing," Gerald mumbled a bit too loudly.

Graham glared at his old friend with cold, steely eyes, ending the meeting with an abrupt wave of his hand. After the smoky room cleared, a rail-thin man with sunken light eyes entered, holding a teakettle atop a sterling silver tray.

"Gerald made a good point, sir," said the man. "Those agents can connect you to everything."

"I know," replied Graham, folding his hands together. "But pawns are sacrificed everyday and no one's the wiser…"

"Very well, sir," nodded the man knowingly. "Will there be anything else?"

"Gerald is…no longer on board with us," said Graham, pausing to stare out the window at the rain. "We cannot stand for that, especially in light of the next stage of our plan…"

"I agree, sir," replied the man, setting down a cup and pouring hot, steaming liquid into it. "Shall I…take care of him?" Graham pressed his hands together in response, bringing them to his chin in an almost prayer-like pose.

"Don't go overboard," he said coolly, sipping at his tea before setting it down. "He was a friend, once." As the man quietly bowed out of the room, Graham sat solemnly for a long, long time before he buried his face in his hands. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

* * *

_Note: There are a few developments I rushed a bit here, but I felt it was about time I added them. Most notably Leon kicking some ass at the expense of small town cops (whom I have no respect for), Graham revealing more of his plan (as well as a slight amount of guilt for it), his desire for the Presidency, and Ada crossing paths with Claire again. Not to mention the romance angle with Leon and Claire. I had meant to do a 'full circle' approach here, similar to an earlier chapter with its pairings, situations, etc, though it didn't quite come out as I expected. I hope I left a bit of mystery here and there too, like the ORE scandal, the squad at the facility, and a few more things. Hope it makes you want to read more! My favorite image was that ending one of Graham unable to cry for his friend, and the rain crying for him. Kind of cheesy, but I liked it. _

_P.S. I have nothing against grits. They just look really unappealing to anyone unfamiliar with them. They're not bad with butter or gravy. In small quantities, of course. One can only handle so much blandness. _


	20. From the depths

_**From the depths…**_

A recent rain had left the ground soft and spongy, despite the mountainous terrain. The trees were silent, the chirp of the jungle distant. Staring down from the watchtower built into the mountain's side, Ada longed for the open land. Instead, she sat and struggled against her bonds. Claire sat sullenly next to her, a pervasive fear betraying her calm expression. Three armed men loomed over them.

"Shit, and to think I didn't want to come along at first," leered one of the men.

"I know this bitch from somewhere," said one of the other men, holding Claire's chin and turning her head side to side. "I just know it…"

"Well, boss man hasn't said we couldn't get to know them better, if you know what I mean," said the last one from the corner of the room. He appeared to be the one in charge.

"Hells yeah," said the first man, setting down his rifle. "Which one first?"

"I remember now," said Wachowski. "This one made me miss that shot in London; bitch cost me ten demerits and a week's pay."

"The one who started your bad streak, right," scoffed their leader. "Cut the shit, Wojo, no one believes your bullshit jinx theory."

The sniper turned back quickly to the other man. "Fuck you, Reese."

"So does that mean I get my own little China doll," asked the first one, his eagerness apparent. The two men seemed to ignore him, more intent on goading each other.

"What's the matter, Wojo, pissed that I don't buy your bullshit story about a penny at ten miles," laughed the larger man.

"It was a grape, and two miles, you jealous son of a bitch," shot back Wojo, his fists clenched.

"Whatever," replied Reese. "Haven't seen it since, or heard of you hitting so much as a billboard lately."

"And it's because of this bitch! I'm telling you," yelled Wojo, the veins in his neck bulging. His next words were interrupted by the crackle of his radio coming to life.

"Delta Squad, the major has confirmed undead activity in the facility. Proceed with caution. Over."

Grabbing his radio, Reese spoke into it. "Sir, this is Reese. There should not be activity in this facility, as there is no nearby population to infect. Over."

"Regardless, we've encountered more than a dozen…what appear to be natives, who have been infected by some sort of virus, so keep an eye out. Over."

"Understood. Over and out," replied Reese, returning the walkie-talkie to his belt. "I guess that means we better hurry, boys," he said, grinning as he set his assault rifle aside.

--

The office was much like he remembered it, the style choices similar, but the actual pieces changed. Only a few years had passed, but the photos with important people had grown along with his success and achievements. The man sat behind his mammoth desk, appearing to be busy. Leon knew this was part of his front, pretending he didn't have time to meet with one of his top operatives, one of the remaining few not killed in action or thrown to the press after the scandal had first broken.

"I want to know where Sherry Birkin is, and I want to know now," Leon said, amazing himself with the authoritative tone he heard in his voice. While his confidence had grown over recent weeks, Secretary Graham was still a powerful man, one who could easily end his career or freedom with a single word.

"My, my…haven't had the pleasure of your company in a long while now, Mr. Kennedy," said Graham as he glanced up from his pile of paperwork. He waved his secretary away, an older woman who looked more the part of a librarian than aide to one of the most powerful men in the country.

"Enough talk," replied Leon. "I want answers," he demanded, leaning against the desk with both hands.

"Truth be told, son, I have absolutely no idea where that girl is," answered Graham. "And if I did, I don't see why I should feel obligated to share that information with you…"

"I deserve to know the truth," Leon responded. "Sir, you once told me that my sense of honor was what would keep me moving up in the O.R.E. Well, we know that isn't going to happen now, and I'm probably going to have nothing to show for my time here," he said, shaking his head. "At the very least, you can show me that you meant what you said, that you appreciated the things I've done and sacrificed for this administration."

"Son, I never once made you do something you didn't want to," Graham said, his voice taking on a thick fatherly tone. "And I know you think this government has done you wrong. But it's never quite as simple as it seems."

"What do you mean?"

"That girl…she was moved for her own protection. Umbrella simply doesn't want to die, son. You've seen it firsthand, how out of control things are getting with their desperation. For their straggling survivors, that girl is the key to resurrecting a dead beast. Now I know how important she was to you, and how good you are now, but do you honestly think you could have protected her as you were then? Every hour of the day, every day of her life, for the rest of her life? Ask yourself if we've really done you wrong."

Leon stood silently, his eyes examining Graham intently, looking for a lie. So far, he could find none.

"Son, it's a matter of national security. As much as I trust you, you are just one man," Graham said, holding up his index finger to illustrate his point. "Although a very well trained and skilled man, still alone. With everything getting so heavy, and with consequences so dire, you'll have to understand my faith resting in the proven, the many. You get me, son?"

"And then what happened," Leon asked quietly. "What happened to her," he repeated.

"We don't know," replied Graham, shaking his head. "Either Umbrella or another party attacked the facility, murdering everyone and their mother, and sprung the girl. Or, as some of our science team is telling me, Sherry herself mutated and killed everyone. Either way, it's not a pretty picture."

"Sherry…mutated? Tha-that can't be!"

"You saw the wreckage yourself, son. You tell me what you thought hit that building."

Images of that broken down shell of a building flashed before his eyes, memories of burnt bodies coming back to him, the smell of rotting flesh in the air. It was so much like then, so much like Raccoon City.

"I…don't know," he finally replied.

Graham seemed to think something over, watching Leon quietly accept the facts as they came to him. An idea occurred to him.

"Leon, I've been thinking…you are right, I do owe you the chance for closure on this matter," he said, tossing before Leon a thick file with the word "Confidential" emblazoned in thick, red letters across the front and back.

"What's this?"

"It's Sherry's entire file," answered Graham. "There is an operation being put together to track and…eliminate her. I don't like it either," he said, shaking his head. "But this is coming from the man upstairs. Only the best of the best are being brought in, and a large delegation of the O.R.E. core has been included at my request," he added, pausing. "And Leon, I'd like for you to lead one of these teams."

--

Ada and Claire exchanged a worried look as the men continued to bicker over dibs and the chain of command. Her hands bound behind her, Ada stealthily slid open a partition on the bottom of her shoe, revealing two small canisters. Taking one into each hand, she immediately opened one and tossed it lightly behind her. A thin wisp of white smoke leaked out before vanishing completely. If that was her smoke bomb, then they were in serious trouble, Claire thought with dismay.

"What the hell is this thing for, anyways," said the first man, tearing off the device strapped to Ada's shoulder. "It looks like a camera or something," he added, peering into the lens.

"Maybe she wants to remember this, you know, like a Kodak moment," laughed Reese, undoing his pants. The other men roared with laughter.

"Christ, what's that smell," asked Wachowski, pinching his nose. "Did one of these bitches shit themselves or something?"

"I never smelt something like this come out of a woman," said the first man, cringing.

"You never smelt a woman besides your mama, I bet," jeered Reese. Wojo joined in on the joke.

"Yeah, you stupid fucking rookie," he said, reaching for his belt's buckle. Seeing Claire's nervous expression, he leaned in closer, his bad breath hot on her face. "You better worry, you fucking whore…ruining my perfect streak. I'm gonna make sure it hurts when I give it to you. It's just too bad your boyfriend isn't here."

Claire turned away from his rancid breath, and caught a glance of Ada furtively spraying the second canister about her backside. When their eyes met, Ada, gave her a subtle wink, shaking her head as if not to worry.

"Why's that, because you'd want to 'give it to him' too," asked Ada defiantly. Wojo's face reddened as the other men laughed.

"Bitch, you're going to get yours too," he spat, foam caking his angry lips. "It ain't a matter of wantin', but a matter of doin'," he sneered, brandishing a large knife in his hand. Ada stared unflinchingly at him, almost daring him to use the weapon.

As he stepped forward, the closed door behind the three men suddenly burst open, a hungry horde of undead stumbling in upon a nauseating wave of rotten flesh. Cursing, Reese immediately leapt for his gun, tripping over the unbuckled pants around his ankles. Two zombies fell instantly upon him, chewing through his back and neck as he screamed for help. Wachowski went to stab one of the creatures when his arm was grabbed by another zombie which bit cleanly into his wrist, the tendons crunching loudly. He howled in pain as another grabbed his leg, tearing his pants to get to the warm meat beneath it. His inner thigh burst in a spray of blood as another zombie feasted on the flesh, blanketing an entire section of the wall with wet gore. The last man froze in terror, tears streaming down his horrified face, as ravenous, decayed fingers clawed apart his belly and spilled out greasy entrails for others to eagerly gnaw upon.

Witnessing the slaughter before her, Claire pushed back blindly with panicked legs, trying to back up but with nowhere to go. Beside her, she caught a glimpse of Ada, who wore a grimly satisfied smile on her face, and Claire realized what she had done, and what those canisters were. The first one, which Ada was now kicking down a shaft for the zombies to mindlessly follow, released a chemical made to attract the undead, and the second, dreadful smelling one was meant to mask her own presence from the zombies.

"Thank god you had enough of that awful perfume for both of us," Claire said gratefully after the zombies were gone.

"What do you mean, enough? I only sprayed myself," Ada replied.

"But then how…?"

"Just be thankful I knocked that first canister down that grating, or you'd be an entrée right now."

"Well, at least I know who'd be my first course," Claire grumbled through clenched teeth, flashing an irate look towards the woman beside her.

"Oh my, you're sweet enough for dessert," Ada said as she slipped nonchalantly out of her bonds.

--

"Eliminate…? Sherry?" Leon didn't seem to hear the rest of Graham's words, the esteemed invitation to take his place as a team leader ignored.

"I think sometimes, when something has to be done for the good of the many, it should be performed by those most…familiar with the problem. Sherry deserves to be…put down by someone who cares about her."

Leon could hold it in no longer. "She's not a wild dog, damn it! This only happened because I trusted you!"

"Mind your tongue, boy," Graham demanded harshly as he rose angrily from his chair. "Remember just whom it is you're talking to!"

Leon glared at the man, his furious blue eyes like shimmering ice. Words and accusations churned in his head, but he said nothing. Despite his internal rage, he knew now was not the time.

"Like I said," continued Graham as he returned calmly to his chair. "I never wanted to make you do something you didn't want to. This is strictly voluntary, but I thought with your…vested interest, you would appreciate the gesture. Would you rather she die at the uncaring hand of a complete stranger, hunted like an animal?"

The young man stood silently, holding the file in his shaking hands. "I'll do it," he whispered, storming out of the office.

After he was gone and the dust settled, Graham's thin assistant slinked in from a side entrance, the wiry man that was his most trusted advisor.

"Sir, are you certain this is a good idea? The Kennedy…boy already knows so much," he said.

"You don't honestly believe he'll survive this mission, do you, Monten," retorted Graham, opening another file with a gusty chuckle. "That girl's wiped out dozens of our best soldiers, and we have no idea how."

"He _did_ survive the Raccoon City disaster," Monten reminded him. "What if he surpasses the odds again?"

"All men have a weakness," said Graham gravely. "And I just happen to know Mr. Kennedy's," he added, returning to the contents of his folder.

--

"So, how did you find this place, anyways," Ada asked Claire as she worked at her cuffs.

"I was following up on the missing person's from a lab incident where…someone I know was held, and found the name Linda Perkins under a flight manifest out here from several months ago. I tracked down a few locals in the know, and found out about this old facility. From there, it was just putting two and two together."

"Well aren't you the cutest little detective ever," cooed Ada. Claire shot her another nasty look, but kept her mouth shut as Ada slid the handcuffs from her wrists. "And how did you get all the way out here on your lonesome?"

"Bought an ATV quad, and rode it in from the coast. It's only about thirty miles each way if you come in by boat," answered Claire, rubbing her sore wrists gingerly.

"You certainly are determined…"

"It's in the genes," replied Claire, regarding Ada suspiciously. "Look…not that I don't appreciate it, but why are you helping me? I can see before; we were both in it pretty deep. But now…there's no reason for you to free me."

"What, I can't do my good deed for the day without an ulterior motive?"

"Not if you're working with Wesker," countered Claire.

"Maybe I'm not working _with_ Wesker," Ada said, tilting her head playfully.

"So who's funding you then," asked Claire, poking through Ada's elaborate equipment. "This is some pretty fancy field gear you got here…"

Ada snatched the device from Claire's hand, clipping it to her belt. She tossed Claire one of the blood covered rifles.

"Their buddies are going to be here any second," warned Ada. "If they're still alive. I'd suggest wiping the blood from that piece too, or the zombies will smell you from a mile away."

But Claire was already rubbing the gun's stock against one of the dead guards' unsullied jackets, and retrieving her own weapons and gear from the pile. Picking up another of the rifles, Ada calmly fired a burst of rounds through each of the dead men's foreheads, tearing their skulls in two.

"Christ!" yelled Claire, startled by Ada's sudden action, but more disturbed by her coldly methodical demeanor.

"Just giving them the mercy they weren't going to spare us," said Ada, tossing the empty rifle aside.

"Yeah, you're a real saint," Claire muttered, turning away. Still, with what horrors they had intended to inflict upon her, the faces of those men would soon join the countless others that haunted her nightmares each night, dead or alive.

--

Heat. It clung and rose from every pore of the lower level in wavy, distorted lines, water turning to steam almost instantly. She could sense this all, of course, through her sight, but through another part of her that seemed to know anything and everything about her. It was an awareness that crystallized over time, a recognition of her inner darkness, prompting a better understanding of all the madness that swirled about her. What had once been obscured by her human half was pulled away like a curtain, seeing the other half of the light. For where there was light, there was also darkness.

Girls her age were getting their licenses, arguing with their parents over the car, gossiping about the captain of the basketball team. Ordinary. It amazed her how great one word could sound. She said it aloud, the echo of the sound hollow, her voice alien even to her own ears. Even had she not changed, her life would still not be ordinary. She would've been placed in special schools, isolated, burdened with expectations. As a young child, she had taken to sometimes talking to herself, and her father had chastised her for it. Then came the imaginary friends, and her mother caught onto that. It was ironic that they wanted for her to fit in with what they considered 'normal', yet did everything to keep her separate, telling her she was "special" or "gifted". Such was life in the Birkin household.

"They never understood," she whispered. Again, she found herself talking aloud. Linda stared at her blankly, until Sherry realized she had to make Linda's eyes react. With but a thought, their softness returned. Entertained by an audience, something inside Sherry began to ramble, the words taking their own form, her advanced brain not fully understanding the words pouring out of her mouth. It was as if an infant could speak, but with the vocabulary of an educated adult.

"Sherry," Linda interrupted, in a voice eerily reminiscent of the young girl's mother. "There's someone here."

The girl sighed, a sigh much like a young girl's, but possessing a much heavier weight to it. It was the same sigh that had escaped her lips when she implanted the natives, turning them into her worker bees. They were good workers, but most died from heat exhaustion in the first few days. And so Sherry infected them with the old base virus, reanimating their corpses. While slower and stiffer, these puppets were easier to control, and they never tired. The smell took some getting used to, however.

"I know," she said. "It doesn't really matter," she added with a casual wave of her hand. The skin was moist again; the first month after her transformation, she had found her skin calcifying, hardening due to some genetic anomaly she had been unable to pinpoint. Thus, a trip to the humid jungle facility was her only option, the knowledge of its existence pulled from an Umbrella lapdog that was working as a lobbyist in Washington DC. Sherry remembered him well, the sheer terror shuddering through his body as she impregnated him with one of her leech seeds, the satisfaction as his chest burst open, his still-beating heart falling to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

Waiting for Linda to reply, Sherry again realized her puppet dangled on empty strings. There had been one time, four months ago, when Linda seemed to almost return to herself. She had moved on her own, and something had flickered in her eyes, an emotion Sherry had never once wished for her dolls to have: fear. The curious side of Sherry had jumped at the development, but she had seen nothing like it since. It was almost as if the host had made one last desperate attempt at freedom before finally giving up. A sullen Sherry stared at her puppet, resentful of Linda's purely physical presence. It was like that time her parents had bought her an expensive dollhouse, full of lifeless accessories and figures. Having all the fun stem from her own imagination was boring, especially since her parents never once nurtured that creativity. And so the toys merely sat there, waiting on her for interaction.

She had thought life sized dolls would prove far more entertaining, but they hadn't. Nothing had satisfied her newfound curiosity. That is, until a month ago, when she found the incredibly rare prototype some fool had left in the facility, nearly dead. Only two such drastic experiments had ever resulted in success, and the fools had squandered one of them right here in this facility. Perhaps this was a chance to play with her new toy. She smiled, a curve of pursed red lips, much like any other child's innocent smile. But behind that smile lay something sinister, something that remained unknown even to her.

--

"Since I've answered your questions, how about returning the favor," asked Claire, when both were ready to move out.

"Sure…but I can't promise anything," Ada said, buckling the last strap of the shoulder monitor into place. She hadn't turned it back on yet.

"Those men in the facility…the U.C.B.S.? How is Umbrella still bankrolling death squads?"

"If you ask me, they're more likely O.R.E…"

"No way were those guys O.R.E.," Claire replied. "I know them; they're not degenerate scum like that. I'm certain they were U.C.B.S., especially if he was that sniper in London…"

"Well, the team being sent in by the President is mostly O.R.E., but a lot of…'undesirables' are also being brought in. It's not like Umbrella didn't have a surplus of trained killers, either. It's probably a combination of both."

"That can't be…he'd have told me," muttered Claire.

"Oh, and who might that be," Ada asked with a bemused sparkle in her eyes.

Claire regarded Ada's question suspiciously. "Just someone I know in the O.R.E.…"

"Is that someone tall, blonde, and handsome?"

"How is it you know so much?"

Ada shrugged. "This is a detail-oriented industry. We get paid a lot to know a lot."

"Is that why you do it, for the money?"

"I'm really more of a people-person when it comes down to it. But I'd be lying if I said the money wasn't nice…"

"Does Leon know you're alive?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I'm not your messenger. Tell him yourself."

"By my count, you owe me far more favors than I owe you…"

"…Why are those men here?"

"Same reason you are, I'd guess."

"They're looking for…Sherry," Claire asked, realizing there was no point to hiding her young friend's name. Ada probably knew all that and more.

"In a way," Ada replied. "But it'd be more accurate to say they're looking for Sherry so that they can kill her."

"Wait, I thought you said the President sent those men in," Claire asked, her stomach sinking at Ada's revelation.

"I did…what of it?"

"Since when does the President send whole platoons to murder teenagers?"

"Since they're infected with the last working sample of the G-Virus…"

"And…Leon knew about all of this?" Claire couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Knew about it? You're way behind the game, girl. He's _leading_ them."

* * *

_Note: This chapter was kind of long, but it gave me the chance to work more with Claire and Ada, who are probably my favorite pair to work with so far. Graham's assistant/assassin Monten was just something random I stuck in, sort of a trusted confidant of his. Originally I had planned to use Nicolai, but seriously, who can see ol' Nick serving someone, much less pour tea? He has no real importance other than as a dialogue device for Graham, so pay him no heed. Hell, I didn't even give him a name until his second or third scene…! Some fans might recognize the name 'Monten' from Inuyasha, the Thunder Brother with the hair envy issues. There's no significance to the name; I just liked the sound of it. _

_This was probably the darkest chapter I've written yet, with the whole near-rape sequence and all. Rather than attempt to write Sherry's psychotic monologue, I decided to leave it unsaid. Sometimes it's better left to your imagination; also, wanted it to be serious, and gibberish often comes off as humorous instead. I had originally intended that Graham's sweet-talking of Leon to be bookends for this chapter (which ties into the title), but I found it jarring to open and close that way. My favorite part was writing the death of the three soldier/mercenaries, it was short but rather satisfying. The image of a guy tripping over his pants and dying as a result just strikes me as absolutely hilarious. _


	21. A black wind rises

_**…A black wind rises**_

The sudden sensation of weightlessness came to him in a rush of nausea and vertigo. It reminded him of sticky summers spent at the carnivals, spinning at such a speed that he felt he would be flung from the ride at any moment. Grabbing for a handhold, it took all of the considerable strength in his legs to merely stand upright, stepping forward towards the cockpit.

"Jackson, what happened," Leon yelled over the turbulence of the helicopter.

"No clue, sir," Jackson replied through bared teeth, pushing all of his weight against the rigid controls.

Their chopper had been flying perfectly, skirting smoothly along the edge of the woods, when they suddenly slammed into something that seemingly stopped them in midair. It spun out of control, the back rotor oozing smoke in a hazy ring that now surrounded them.

"Take us down!" ordered Leon, his stomach pitching completely to one side. "Now!"

"I'm trying to, sir!"

Waiting for the chopper to pitch in the right direction, Leon used the momentum to lean forward and fall into the seat beside the pilot. He heard the sound of a soldier vomiting behind him, the others holding on grimly, silent prayers on their lips. Struggling to right himself, Leon grasped the second set of controls, looking over the instrument panel. He had only logged about twenty hours in the air, but he realized someone needed to take charge, and so he pulled a headset over his ears.

"Cut the rear rotor," Leon directed, looking for the switch. Jackson immediately obeyed, and the whirlwind of smoke around them began to dissipate, the clear northern skies opening before them.

"We're starting to spin faster," said Jackson, bracing himself at the sudden acceleration of speed.

"Take us down, and don't worry about being gentle," instructed Leon, pointing at a clearing below them. "Just get us down a few more hundred feet, and cut the engine!"

The pilot nodded, slowing the motor as he pushed the throttle forwards, dropping the spinning chopper down towards the trees. As the chopper descended in its wild free fall, the tail slammed against a tall tree, rebounding off before spinning towards it again. Leon heard the loud crack of the wood splintering, giving way for the chopper to drop…but then he realized that it wasn't the tree that had snapped. It was the tail of the chopper.

Choking smoke began to pour in from the rear of the helicopter's cabin, the men gagging as they pulled on their issued gas masks. The pilot looked desperately at Leon, his eyes startlingly unsure as the smog swallowed them both. Fire began to pour from the back, the flames licking at their gear. Through the madness of it all, Leon could barely hear the pilot's voice over the headset.

"What now sir, what do I do now," he coughed. Neither man in the cockpit had had the chance to put on an oxygen mask.

Realizing that more orders would do nothing, Leon quickly reached behind his seat. His desperately searching fingers wrapped around the shotgun, and he brought it forward while jacking the safety. Its first round spider-webbed the fiberglass, and the second completely shattered it, sending the panel spiraling to the ground below. The opening sucked the smoke from the rear, but the fires were beginning to reach the men strapped into their seats.

"Bail in ten!" Leon screamed over the noise as he took the chopper's controls into his shaking hands. His eyes began to water, but whether it was from the piercing smoke or the prospect of death, he would never know. Dropping their altitude again sharply, Leon could tell they were only a few dozen feet off the ground. He could hear the door slide open behind him, the men diving out of the whirling chopper as quickly as they could.

"Cut the motor," he yelled to the pilot, who was busy working at his straps; apparently he planned to bail with the other men. Leon grabbed Jackson by the collar, throwing him back into his seat roughly. "Cut the motor," he repeated, his icy blue eyes blazing. The pilot fought Leon's grip off at first, but when he saw those eyes, he nodded meekly, returning to the console to kill the last working motor on the vehicle.

As the blades began to slow their rotation, the silence of it all struck Leon in a rather abstract way. Here they were, barely twenty feet above the ground, on fire, without power, and without protection of any kind, yet he looked forward to a crash more than the rest of this mission. Images of an innocent twelve year old flashed against his wet eyes, a girl chewing happily on gum while cloaked in Claire's pink vest.

"Alright, bail Jackson," ordered Leon, locking the control sticks into place with the shotgun's stock. The chopper's wild spin cycle had mostly stopped, but its momentum was tossing equipment every which way. Jackson was already leaping from the side when Leon rose from his seat and saw the low set of rocks rushing at them from below.

The first blade screeched harshly against the rocks, snapping off and sailing through the air towards the men below. Three men were cut by the first deadly shard, two completely in half. The third man lost his right leg above his knee, the sudden loss of so much blood killing him almost instantly. A trained medic might have been able to save him, had the medic not lay on the ground in two pieces beside him. Another blade followed the first, whistling harmlessly above the men as it lodged into a thick tree. The last blades of the rotor spun unevenly as the chopper bounced away from the contact, tossing Leon into the rear of the chopper. Rolling on his side, he crawled towards the opening before diving towards the earth below.

He fell awkwardly on a pile of dry leaves, thankful it wasn't a mountain of rocks. Moments later, he heard the loud crash of the chopper as it collided with the ground, the fires spreading to nearby trees.

"Doc, get a count on the injured," Leon yelled over his shoulder, sprinting towards the burning helicopter. Every bit of their ordinance was in there…

"He's dead, Leon," one of the men yelled back to him. But Leon had no time to spare grieving. Leaping through the broken door into the heavy smoke, he blindly grabbed anything within his reach before hurling it out into the woods behind him. He heard the footsteps of his men, gathering up the weapons and clearing away.

"Get out of there, Kennedy!" his men hollered over the noise of the fire. The smoke was chokingly thick, tasting of fuel and burnt rubber. Frustrated, Leon realized he had no choice but to bail. Lunging from the door, he rolled down a low hill as the copter behind him exploded in a deafening roar, raining hot debris upon him.

--

The first set of explosions rocked the facility, the generators flickering to dying lights, dust falling from the ceiling. Despite this sudden development, however, none of the dozen worker drones seemed to notice the dangerous situation. Which was precisely as she wanted it.

"Keep moving the research files," she commanded, feeling a slight giddiness about her. She could just as easily given her orders mentally, but saying them entitled a greater sense of control. It was also oddly reassuring to hear the sound of her own voice as well. She looked up at Linda, her most prized doll, and straightened her shirt's collar. Using Linda as a cover had worked magnificently; no one in customs paid much attention to a doctor and her ward while they traveled the world. Sherry suspected that she had enough control and knowledge of Linda by now to fool even her own family. Now there was a challenge. But then there would be so much time spent on explanations, her family thinking she died in that fire back in the States.

"Unnecessary messes," Linda said suddenly, and Sherry realized she had been broadcasting her own thoughts again. So far, none of the others had proven so sensitive to her emotions and musings, but her connection to Linda dated back several years, which could explain the advanced rapport. Part of the girl wished her parents were still alive, so she could plant some seeds into them. How amusing that would be, including them in _her_ experiments for a change...

Another explosion rang through the halls, and Sherry looked up with an annoyed expression. These men were beginning to bother her. At least half of their number were dead by now, taken out by her 'Security Force', a handful of fresh zombies hungry for flesh. Apparently these men wanted to either salvage the mission, or were foolishly seeking revenge. Either way, it was only proper etiquette she go up to meet them.

She walked to the holding area, footprints steaming behind her, and looked into a small slit on the mammoth steel box. A smile formed on her lips.

"Time to come out and play, boy," she cooed, spitting a fresh slew of her leech seeds through the slot.

--

"Injury count, Harper," inquired Leon as he limped towards the other men, brushing ash and cinders from his bomber jacket.

"Not good, boss," replied the smooth talking Ranger from Boston. He was young, but experienced as much as any of the other men given to Leon for the mission. "Three dead and four incapacitated."

"How badly incapacitated?"

"One with a broken leg, two with leg fractures, one with second and third degree burns across his back. More with some slight burns and sprains, but nothing they can't grit and bear, sir."

"Best we could hope for, I guess," sighed their tired leader. "Gather up the equipment we have on hand and get me an inventory of everything," he ordered. "Westing…Chang…you two have the most medical training; get to work on the injured."

The two men tiredly nodded, sifting through bloody leaves to find the buried medic equipment bags.

"Does anyone have a working radio," Leon asked, leaning back against a tree trunk.

"I've been trying to call the other team for the past few minutes, sir," answered the radioman, a freckled youth with the reddest hair Leon had ever seen. Leon was especially glad to see him still alive; the officer reminding him of one of his closest childhood friends.

"And headquarters, Sean?"

"Also no go, sir," he answered, trying his best to hide the worry in his young eyes.

"I'm sure they're ok, sir," added Harper. "Their chopper was pretty far west…didn't even see us go down, I bet. They're probably reaching the target point now."

"I don't think so," Leon said, shaking his head.

"Why do you say that, sir," asked Harper, a bit annoyed by his superior's doubting attitude.

"Look over there," Leon pointed, and the men's eyes followed obediently. Far off to the west, a thick column of black smoke rose quietly from the trees. Both choppers had crashed.

--

The young man wiped the blood away from the thin cut on his face, staring angrily at the larger man before him.

"No bad, hombre, but I dealt with worse in my old barrio," Carlos said coolly, rubbing the fluid between his fingers. The man across from him grinned.

"First blood, Olivera," he growled, twirling a shining blade on his finger, its deadly tip red with Carlos' blood.

"It's last blood that matters in these things," replied the younger man, clutching the handle of his large knife tightly.

"I doubt you can draw _any_ blood with your skill against mine," said Krauser, his hard eyes watching Carlos carefully.

Carlos shrugged, realizing he had no choice but to fight. The once small fires had sparked the dry timber of the woods, surrounding the two in a shrinking ring of burning underbrush. Krauser had walked away from the crash unscratched, almost as if he was expecting it. But it was only when Carlos woke from the trauma to his head that he overhead his squad's Captain revealing the success of his sabotage.

"De putamadre," cursed Carlos, lunging at Krauser with the only weapon he'd had on hand, his least favorite weapon. The knife was useful, but Carlos preferred ranged combat. Krauser actually smiled when Carlos attacked him with his knife, parrying the attack easily and cutting the smaller man's cheek as he passed.

"If I told you once, I told you idiots a thousand times…know the knife better than you know yourself. Master it. It will either save or cost you your life someday," Krauser said brusquely, admiring his knife's blood tipped edge.

"Save that 'Art of War' educating shit for someone who cares," replied Carlos, circling his former teacher, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

"Then school is in session," Krauser said, assuming a low attack stance. His knife flashed outwards, aimed at Carlos' chest, before snapping back and across for a low slash attack. The feint had thrown off the younger man's defenses, the warm blood dripping down his stomach indicating his opponent's success.

Carlos stumbled forward to counterattack, his clumsy thrust sidestepped effortlessly by Krauser before neatly slicing open his former pupil's wrist. Jumping back, Carlos held the gushing wound in his free hand, blood flowing over tightly clenched fingers. Krauser laughed gustily, shaking his head.

"You're an embarrassment to the core, Olivera," accused Krauser, his cold eyes unforgiving. "Tell me, was it affirmative action that got you in? Or did you ride Leon's coattails to get in?"

"Chinga un perro, Krauser," swore Carlos, sweat pouring down his forehead. The hellish heat from the fire was getting to him, the fatigue and wear from the crash coupling with the blood loss to blur his vision ever so slightly. On the other hand, Krauser was at peak condition, and his skill with a knife was legendary while Olivera's was adequate at best.

"Insults? Is that what I taught you," Krauser laughed gruffly. "Real men speak with their actions…like this," he said as he pounced forward. Carlos barely deflected the thrusting blade, his counter a beat too slow; Krauser ducked under it with ease. His fist then found its way into the younger man's stomach, the blow doubling Carlos over. Grasping his long hair in his battle hardened hand, Krauser pulled him back savagely, exposing his throat. "I always told you to get rid of this faggot haircut of yours," he said, holding his knife at Carlos' Adam's apple.

"Y tu mama tambien," spat Carlos, leaning back and pushing off with his legs. Coupled with Krauser's grip, the sudden, desperate move threw the larger man off balance, the edge of his lethal knife sailing harmlessly above Carlos' falling form. Planting his good hand onto the ground, Carlos swung his leg over as he somersaulted backwards, kicking Krauser squarely in the head with the steel toe of his boot. The larger man fell back, stunned by the speed and ferocity of the blow. Carlos' momentum carried him to his feet, and he spun to thrust a backhanded attack at Krauser. The blind stab, however, stopped in midair when it met with Krauser's countering elbow. Droppingbewteen senseless fingers, Carlos went to catch the weapon with his other injured hand when he felt Krauser's knife bite viciously into his stomach, the razor edge twisting roughly. Carlos gasped, as much in pain as in surprise, blood rushing up his throat, spilling from his lips.

"Checkmate, Olivera," Krauser whispered into the dying man's ear as he lay his former comrade gently on the soft earth. Something that might have been pity in another man flashed in those cruel eyes; perhaps regret from killing a man he had fought alongside for so long, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he too would suffer the grisly fate of death someday. Whatever thoughts ran through his mind, Krauser turned to the more pressing matters at hand.

Looking for an opening in the blaze about him, Krauser began to make his way from the crash site. The surrounding heat suddenly thickened, and he felt the impact of something heavy clobber him from behind. Falling to the ground, he glimpsed Carlos standing behind him, bleeding profusely, a piece of flaming wreckage in his blackened hands. Krauser instinctively rolled to his side to avoid the follow up attack, and he felt the agonizing burn of his flesh melting under the lick of the fire. Jumping to his feet, the larger man's eye was masked red with blood, the side of his face a mass of burnt tissue. A single, bloody tear rolled down the ridges of his charred face, but he showed no other sign of pain. Carlos grinned weakly, barely supported by wobbly legs.

"Now you got a face to match your personality, cabron," muttered a half conscious Carlos, his last words silenced by Krauser's falling knife as it pierced through his chest again and again.

--

"I'm sure they're ok sir," Harper assured Leon. "Captain Krauser is the best around, and he's got Lieutenant Olivera watching his back."

"I don't doubt their skill, but that looks to be a bad crash," Leon said, lowering the binoculars. They stood on an open hill, miles from the other team's crash site, stuck between their destination and their comrades.

"We only have enough equipment for the three of us to take on a large scale bio-threat, sir," chimed in the other team member, a middle aged man who had spent most of his youth as an Israeli commando. "We're already spread thin as it is."

"I know, Bernard," Leon replied, his eyes distant. "I'm just worried is all," he added, turning back to their path. "Maybe I shouldn't have left so many men behind…"

"It was the only thing you could do, sir," offered Bernard. "Sean is a greatcommunications man, but not as good in a firefight. Since we've seen no signs of an outbreak, it's best he stay with the wounded and continue flagging help."

"I just hope help comes before nightfall," Leon said, the sun already beginning its descent. If an outbreak did in fact occur, those injured men wouldn't stand a chance in the dark woods.

"I'm wondering if help will even come," muttered Harper. The other men stopped in their tracks to look at him.

"What's that supposed to mean," demanded Leon.

Harper shrugged. "Two choppers, two simultaneous crashes due to unknown causes? I don't think I'm being paranoid here by being just a wee bit suspi—"

"Graham needs us to do this job," Leon said, cutting him off. "Or it's _his_ ass served up to the President."

"From what I hear, it's the President who's at Graham's mercy," Bernard added under his breath.

"How is that possible," Leon asked. But as the young leader began to think of it, things did seem to have a strange way of playing out in that man's favor. Graham was the one at the top of the O.R.E., and yet he wasn't so much as mentioned in the scandal allegations of Congress. He was a close personal friend of the President's as well, working with the past few administrations…what would he have to gain from working both sides when he had the ear of the most powerful man in the world?

"The O.R.E. was established due to the Executive Powers Act, thanks to legislation giving them excessive, unbalanced powers for wartime," answered Bernard. "Graham would have all decision making power and control, his influence spreading to every aspect of government. But as a divisional Secretary, he wasn't visibly associated with the organization. He got the organization created as much by politicking as his relationship with President Sears' administration."

"So?"

"So…Graham has used this power base to boost his own influence without risk or consequence. Consequences that fell squarely on the President's shoulders with a scandal some believe to have been leaked by Graham himself," replied Bernard. "Even if the President wanted to pin it on Graham, he couldn't. And if he was able to, he'd look like a rat. A lose-lose situation for President Sears, but a win-win scenario for Graham."

"Why haven't we heard anything about this," asked a skeptical Kaplan.

"Because as Leon can tell you, all the top brass of the O.R.E. was thrown to the wolves in the wake of the scandal. Officers who helped destroy evidence of his position, not knowing what they were doing, or why they were doing it. That's the kind of men Graham recruited for his core."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Leon growled roughly, grabbing the older man by his collar to shove him against a tree.

"Don't I," Bernard asked. "Those men died in protective custody, when they had been promised immunity for their testimony against him! Good men, Kennedy…great soldiers you fought with!"

"So why are you here then," Leon asked, reluctantly releasing his grip. "Why would you help a snake like that?"

"I have my own reasons, just like you two," replied Bernard, a wistful memory showing on his face. "We all suspected we were working for a scumbag, after all," he added, shaking the thought away. "Or am I wrong?"

The men's silence was the only answer he needed.

"Let's get moving," Leon finally said, and the men nodded solemnly, following his lead.

--

"He wouldn't lead a team of men like that," she said with certainty in her voice. "I don't care what you say; he just wouldn't."

"You know as well as I that Leon doesn't always do what he wants; he's more likely to do what he thinks he should," replied Ada.

"But then that sniper would've recognized him, when he took shots at us in London," countered Claire.

"I have a feeling that sniper only had eyes for you, hon. Besides, I didn't say that _this _team here was necessarily being led by Leon. For all we know, this could be another group."

That seemed to put the young woman's mind at ease. "Fair enough. But then that means there is more than just the President's team after Sherry's life…"

"Well, yeah. I guess you really don't win either way, do you?"

"I still don't see why he wouldn't have told me…"

"Leon was probably trying to protect you," shrugged Ada. "It's what he does…besides worry too much."

"Maybe…we have to make sure these guys don't get to Sherry _now_, though."

"What's this 'we' talk?"

"You're going to let them murder an innocent girl just for some virus inside of her?"

"Innocent, huh? Is that what you think?"

"Should I think otherwise?"

"Your little friend…she's killed dozens of people. Infected god knows how many more. If her infection were to get out of control, the whole world could be at risk."

Claire regarded Ada suspiciously. "Since when do you care about the welfare of the world? Shouldn't you be more concerned with the bottom dollar on this deal?"

"Just think, if the world were overrun by that virus, where would I shop?"

"Can't you be serious for just one se—" Claire began, when the ground beneath them suddenly shook, knocking the two women off balance. "Jesus, was that an earthquake?"

"More like C4," replied Ada, hurrying down the tunnel. "Looks like they've breached the first security level. Come on!"

--

"Graham must be stopped," the woman seated at the head of the table said. The men sitting around the table nodded in agreement, waiting for her next words. "Whatever his ambition, it's become too risky to remain unchecked."

"Of course you are right, ma'am, but as of yet, we cannot account for his near limitless cash flow…"

"He'll have to account for it when the Presidential Candidacy Committee begins digging through his finances," replied the woman, but something in her words betrayed her confidence.

"With all due respect, Madam Chairperson, we have some of the best financial minds on the planet researching this matter, and they cannot account for even half his resource inflow…"

"Severing his resources would only work temporarily, anyways," suggested a mousy looking man. "The board is in agreement that it was only part of a larger strategy to halt his ascension to the Presidency."

"What do the polls currently say, Maxwell," asked the woman.

"The polls show a general lack of interest on the part of the voting majority, ma'am," replied the thin shouldered advisor, pushing up his glasses. "But that's nothing new. However, with a low voter turnout, it wouldn't be a surprise if Graham was able to make up the few points he's trailing by."

"So he truly is a dark horse in this race."

"Exactly, but he's somehow received campaign funding from just about every conservative group in the country. I'm confounded as to just how a political candidate can do something like this; I've never in all my life seen something like this…"

"I suspect he has one hell of a campaign manager."

"His promises of 'free healthcare' and 'cheap pharmaceuticals'…have you been able to find anything as to the veracity of these claims, Jameson?"

"With this resource budget he's boasting, it does seem truthful, ma'am," replied the man seated to her right. "But to produce pharmaceuticals on such a grand scale…"

"Yes…?"

"He'd have to have an operation far larger than us. But the only company ever to achieve such large scale operation was…Umbrella."

"Whose assets were liquidated by the government," interjected another man. "And by the prior administration," he added, hoping to quell the direction of the discussion.

"You're still denying the possibility of an Umbrella resurrection, Walter," asked Jameson. "Despite reports coming in from around the world of executive activity and black ops conducted by their soldier core?"

"While resurrection might be Umbrella's stock and trade, I see no way a single person, much less someone as visible as the President, successfully taking liquidated resources from such an organization and using them for his own political gain," replied a skeptical Walter. "Especially not a candidate who is going to have to fight his way to ratify anything in Congress…"

"The Executive Power Act is still in effect, remember, giving that branch veto power over everything in Congress, and free reign over judicial matters as well."

"And the bill is up for renewal this month," reminded Walter. "No way is Congress going to take that kind of abuse for another term."

Maxwell, hearing the discussion return to politics, offered his thoughts on the matter. "It's not as likely as you think, Walter. Political interests have lately swayed towards the conservative side, which Graham inexplicably dominates. Conservative interests, especially during wartime, will prevail. Senators, for all their thirst for power and influence, prefer to err on the side of caution. I wouldn't be surprised if Congress didn't renew the Executive Power Act for another four years, given the opportunity."

"Regardless, that is out of our hands," reminded the Chairwoman, resuming control of the meeting. "The matter of whether or not reviving Umbrella is part of Graham's plan is far more pressing. If he is able to bring such a huge competitor back, I can't imagine what kind of hit our profits will take, especially if this project has federal implications and backing. Life has been good these past years, but we have to consider the possibility that our bubble will burst, and soon. Haven't we a contingency plan for this? Or have we been too busy counting our money and patting ourselves on the back?"

The men seated the table bowed their heads, all finding somewhere to avert their eyes, when someone finally spoke.

"Madam Chairperson…there is something," a young man seated at the back said. "I've been holding off on it, but it sounds like the situation is most dire…"

"What is it, Gregory?"

"I've been talking to someone, someone who knows quite a bit and who could be useful to us."

"Who is he?"

"She. I've only spoken to her a handful of times, but she's hinted at knowing much more than she let on. I think she could be a valuable asset if we were to make a move."

"Who is she, Gregory?"

"I don't know her real name, but she goes by 'Ada'…"

* * *

_Note: So I finally decided to unveil the man Leon will become. I'd kind of thought of him as a boyish character, always at the mercy of women, duty, etc., but it was a nice change of pace to write him as a take-charge kind of guy that others look up to. He's still a bit wet behind the ears, but I hope you can see the direction he's taking. The beginning of this chapter is kind of an homage to the first RE, with the crashing choppers, and I really enjoyed writing it (even if it's not completely realistic). _

_The knife battle was hard as hell to write, not because of the outcome, but just trying to keep the action flashy yet easy to follow. Reading it, it kind of feels like a cross between an anime and RE4, which is kind of what I was going for. I loved the image of Krauser shedding a bloody tear on his burnt face, not because of sadness, but a reflex pain. That image struck me as the definition of Krauser. I had originally planned that knife fight to be full of hellish imagery, but I decided the fatal encounter by such characters would speak for itself._

_Another thing I was tempted to add was when Bernard reveals that Graham had those agents killed (and which was hinted at in an earlier chapter) towards the end. I had planned to make those the two agents that had recruited Leon (Blue and Red), but then I realized I never gave one of them a name! Embarrassing, I know. It was just a trivial detail, but one I kind of liked; sort of a cautionary tale for Leon to learn from, that duty doesn't always mean as much to you as those you serve. I must apologize for the political nature of the last part; reminds me of where this country is headed, and I don't like it one bit. By the way, if President Sears sounds familiar to you, it's from Metal Gear Solid. _


	22. A world of betrayal

_**A world of betrayal**_

From a Presidential TV Ad; Fall, 2003:

"Candidate Davis Graham Jr. has long fought for the ideals and beliefs of America. Through resounding success and heartbreaking tragedy, Candidate Graham has lived with the people, and for the best interests of families. A perennial enemy of Washington lobbyists, Davis Graham has been unafraid of overcoming fierce obstacles while toiling endlessly to find the shape and voice of true Americans.

"Incumbent President Sears, meanwhile, has led an administration plagued by scandals, abusing the balance of powers and disgracing the distinguished office of President of the United States in just one term. Sears has drawn a harsh line between rich and poor, giving tax breaks and legal cushion to big businesses and his wealthy friends.

"Presidential hopeful Davis Graham helped dismantle greedy global conglomerates such as Umbrella, Inc, and promises to use their once limitless resources to provide cheap healthcare and medication for every citizen in America. To provide every American the chance to find a dream nearly lost. Vote Davis Graham Jr.: fighting for the America we all dream of."

--

"So what do you think of it, sir?"

A thoughtful expression came over Graham's tired eyes, and he took a gulp from his coffee before answering.

"It's not bad, Libby. I'd prefer some of the language to be a bit simpler, to speak to the…uneducated voters. Words like "toiling" and "conglomerates" will draw a blank for them. And I'd like more coloreds to be shown in the images, less flowing flag and 9/11 aftermath in the backdrop. We have the conservatives won over already; this is to get the pitiful masses voting for yours truly."

"Sir, use of the word 'coloreds' might be a habit you want to lose," suggested a sharply dressed man.

"Jesus H. Christ, Goldberg, I'm not using it in a racist way to put anyone down. I'm using it _demographically_."

"Of course, sir," said the man. "And it's Goldenherd," he muttered under his breath.

"The mention of families…I want that cut," said Graham, ignoring the man. "I don't want an image of my daughter plastered across this campaign."

"But sir, the idea of a nuclear family is essential, almost as much as religion. Minorities will empathize with someone who is devoted to God and family…"

"Most minorities can't or don't vote in the states we need, dammit! We need California, but their minorities are mostly illegals…!"

"Secretary, a candidate's family appearance is just as important as the candidate himself," reminded Wesley, one of his long time advisors. "And Ashley is quite…photogenic. I can see her helping you with the young college voters."

"Damn it, Wesley, what part of this don't you get," roared Graham, everyone at the table bracing themselves for another one of his famous tirades. "_I_ don't want _my_ daughter in the ads! She can be a visible part of my candidacy, but _not in my ads_! Get it?"

"Of course, sir," Wesley replied meekly, hanging his head. A hush fell over the room.

"Now that we have _that _established…I'd also like to change the emphasis on certain words, like "_one_ term", and "rich _and _poor," added Graham, his calmness returning. "We want these peasants to see him drawing a line between them and what they dream of being. I want something more specific in our attack on Sears, and I want it tighter, more concise. That way we'll have more time to talk about my campaign. Are we sure we can't use the Raccoon City bombing against him?"

"We've been looking for an opportunity, but the connection is rather tenuous," replied a woman seated across from him. She might not have looked it, but she was one of the best public relations directors in the country and had helped three men gain the presidency. "It was a different administration, and Sears served them in the same capacity as you."

"Meaning, any responsibility of his is a responsibility of mine as well."

"Exactly, sir."

"In that case, move forward with my changes for now," Graham said, ending the meeting with a slight wave of his hand. "And Wesley, I'd like a word with you."

As the others filed out, they all exchanged worried glances, but none would look directly at the apprehensive Wesley, who sat glued to his seat.

"About before…I lost my temper," apologized Graham, his voice surprisingly sincere. "I value your opinions, Wesley, but I value the privacy of my daughter all that much more. And there's of course a concern for her safety; the less the public knows about her, the better. Do you understand where I'm coming from?"

"Of course, sir, I should have seen that myself," Wesley said, a great relief coming over his face. "I'm sorry for pushing it," he added, bowing slightly.

"Now that we have that out of the way," Graham began, returning to his pile of paperwork. "If you ever talk about what my daughter looks like again, or her being 'photogenic', then something unspeakably horrible is going to befall you," warned Graham, his voice like honeyed venom. "Understand?"

Wesley gulped and nodded, scuttling out of the room when Graham dismissed him with a nod.

--

A landscape of carnage lay before them. Bloody weapons, bullet casings, and body parts cast in broken body armor lay strewn across the concrete, dissolving slowly in caustic pools of a grayish muck.

"Oh my god," Claire whispered at Ada's back.

"Now you've seen it for yourself," said Ada, ducking behind a stack of crates. Claire instinctively did the same, the shock and horror still stamped on her face. "No denying it now."

"Where is she? Where's Sherry," Claire asked, an emptiness in her voice. Taking note of the change, Ada regarded her companion with a guilty look; it had never been her intention to emotionally scar the poor girl.

"She's close by, and probably with a horde of low-level bio-weapons," Ada replied, drawing her handgun. "Be careful," she added, nodding in the opposite direction.

Just when the pair was about to split, a large roar echoed through the room. The two women peered carefully over the crates, and saw one of the largest masses of living flesh in their lives sliding down the far wall, leaving a trail of that acidic gray fluid in its wake. Birkin had mutated into something the size of a train, but this mass dwarfed even him. At first glance, it appeared to be shapeless, but as it moved, Ada could see that it walked on four legs, and it exhibited a surprising amount of agility to it.

"Oh, you have _got _to be kidding me," sighed Ada.

"That thing…is that thing Sherry?"

"I wish…no, it's a Nyx."

"What the hell is a Nyx?"

"There's only ever been two in existence. Although I guess this bastard makes three."

Claire looked expectantly at Ada, waiting for the rest of her explanation. "Yeah, and…?"

"Basically, it's an advanced single cell organism, but composed of several trillion duplicate cells that all connect and feed off one another in a hive-like intelligence."

"Since when do single cell organisms have four legs?"

"That's the bad part; a Nyx devours pretty much any living thing in sight, which makes them impossible to control. To make it even worse, the Nyx takes on characteristics of whatever it's absorbed. I think our little friend there has been eating tigers."

"Eating…tigers? You're kidding me, right?"

"I can't make shit like this up."

"So…what do we do?"

"A sane person would run, I suppose. But I doubt we can outrun that thing now," Ada said thoughtfully. "Although, I guess the only one I'd have to actually outrun would be you…"

"Wait…you said there were two other of those Nyx things…how were they killed?"

"The only one I know to have been destroyed was in the Raccoon City outbreak, by a group of armed cops and some desperate citizens," Ada replied. "Say…you wouldn't happen to have a rocket launcher hidden somewhere, like stuffed up your ass, would you?"

"Can't say that I do."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to improvise…"

--

The girl had some moves, that much was clear, Ada thought as she watched Claire vault silently over the catwalk above. Waiting another five seconds to be sure she was out of earshot, Ada reconnected her satellite uplink with Wesker, hoping the signal could find its way that far underground. At first, she heard only dull silence, her ears straining to hear the faintest sound.

"Ada, are you back online," Wesker suddenly said, his voice crystal clear and calm.

"How the—"

"I can tell when your system has been powered up or down from here. My last transmission was someone surprising you in the dark. Are you…what is your status?"

"My, my Wesker…if I didn't know any better, I'd say you almost sounded…worried. I'm flattered, but fine."

"That equipment is very valuable," he said curtly.

"Well, then let's put it to use," replied Ada, getting down to business. "I have encountered a Nyx Alpha, more advanced than the one you had on record. It seems to possess a combination of feline characteristics."

"My visual isn't picking up anything. Was the lens damaged in your…altercation?"

"Probably, or it was damaged in the fall. I'm uploading a still photo to you for reference. But I need your 'extensive information network' to find me a weakness to exploit."

She could hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background, and her alert eyes followed Claire quietly sneaking overhead. The girl had her own thoughts and suggestions on vanquishing the Nyx.

"Haven't you ever played a video game," she had asked. "The boss' weakness is _always_ the oversized eye."

"Guess I'll have to take your word for it," shrugged Ada. "What do you want to hit it with?"

"We'll need something big," Claire began. "If we can get it to stumble, then drop something heavy on its eye…"

"If you suggest an anvil, you're on your own."

"Um, no…but there looks to be some heavy equipment up there," Claire pointed to the narrow catwalk overhead.

"Ok, go take a look," said Ada.

Claire was tip-toeing very carefully now, directly above the creature. Her eyes met with Ada's, and she shook her head once, signaling that there was nothing up there they could use. Before Ada could wave her back over, the eye on the creature's back suddenly widened, its pupil narrowing to a slit as it saw Claire. The large lumps of flesh on its back burst open; long, thin tentacles erupting from the mounds to shoot upwards and grasp the wire mesh of the catwalk. The section she was on shook roughly before snapping, the falling half forming a ramp. Grasping the grating, Claire hung near the top, trying to pull herself up as the tendrils rocked the lower half, trying to draw her into its waiting mouth.

Watching the scene unfold before her, Ada's thoughts were torn between her own preservation and sticking it to Wesker by once again saving a Redfield. Something in her gut told her she wasn't making it out alive anyways, but seeing that monstrosity begin to scale the wall after Claire, she knew what she had to do.

"Ada, what are you doing," asked Wesker when he heard the sound of her handgun firing. "That isn't going to do anything to it," he lectured, but she could hear nothing but the smack of her bullets against the brown flesh of the Nyx.

Her vaccine-tipped rounds sizzled in the monsters flesh, bits of reddish foam oozing from the entry wounds. The Nyx roared in something that might have been pain, turning towards the spy. The huge eye took the sight of her in, before closing tightly under her hail of bullets. Without pause, the creature charged at her, ripping the catwalk grating down with its forward lunge. Ada dove to her side, the rush of wind behind her tossing her as if she had just dodged a high-speed train. Rolling to her feet, she was moving again, sprinting between a set of freight containers. She heard a loud crash overhead, heralding the return of the Nyx as it loomed above her. Gray mucous leaked on the steel containers as they bent under the massive weight, the hiss of melting steel all around her.

Claire, meanwhile, hung on for dear life, the skidding grate showering her with sparks while screeching across the pavement. As the creature banked right to pursue Ada, Claire saw her chance, releasing her grip and sliding at its turn to slow her momentum. Slamming into a stack of crates, she crawled dizzily to her feet and watched the Nyx bound around the room, still dragging the section of the catwalk. Claire had expected Ada to be tired from sprinting in this extreme heat, but the woman was miraculously still able to constantly stay ahead of the creature. Ada was exhibiting an incredible amount of stamina and agility, zipping between narrow openings at breakneck speeds. Still, despite the serene look on Ada's face, Claire was certain she couldn't keep this up for much longer. The rifle she had filched from the dead goon would hardly do anything, but she had a feeling that the team had probably brought something far more potent. She ran to the pile, shoving down the nauseous feeling that rose from her stomach at the sight of all that blood and gore, before digging hurriedly through the ordinance.

"Ada," said Wesker. "I've found a research journal on the genetic composition of the Nyx, and this might be of use to you: the creature's organisms that transmit its senses are the weakest of the colony. However, the stronger cells compensate for this weakness by protecting them with their own lives in a shell-like casing. Meaning, it loses a degree of its senses in exchange for maximizing its protection. However, if you were to weaken other areas of the whole mass, it would have to eventually expose these weak areas to heal those wounds. Look for a sensory receptor, something along the lines of an eye," he suggested.

"Christ, she was right then," Ada mumbled.

"_Who_ was right? …Ada?"

"Sorry, I'm a bit busy right now," she panted, sliding under a truck's flatbed. She was barely back on her feet when she heard the crash of the truck being tossed aside. Her muscles were beginning to tire; despite all her training, there were only so many places in this loading area that she could run to. Eventually all the obstacles would be destroyed, and she'd have nowhere left to run. Then it'd all be over for her.

A burst of gunfire erupted from her right, the spray of bullets tearing into one of the creature's legs. Its balance disrupted, the creature stumbled and slid, its momentum carrying it into a cement wall. The whole room shook, the wall caving in at the impact. Ada took the opportunity and scurried up a ladder onto one of the lower catwalks, strapping a looted rifle to her back. She could see Claire standing with a large, smoking M63 in her hands, propped atop a set of boxes. The girl was firing again at its back, trying for the eye covered by a fleshy membrane. The spy gave her a thumbs up, and Claire flashed her a tired smile. Ada would have to pick her shots carefully; she only had two more clips of the vaccine tipped bullets, and she'd have to save them for the creature's Achilles heel. If they would even work at all…the rounds had been created specifically for T-Virus creatures, and the Nyx supposedly had a liberal combination of both T and G virus.

Bits of flesh tore from the Nyx's back under Claire's hail of gunfire, a hundred tiny rivers dripping blood down its mountainous back as it rose from its haunches. It turned slowly, seemingly pained by the screaming M63, before leaping high in the air towards Claire. The crates exploded in a burst of broken wood and crushed steel, the concrete cratering under the monster's massive weight. But Claire was already sprinting towards the next station she had set up, tossing a grenade behind her.

A large piece of the creature disintegrated in the hand grenade's explosion, the brownish matter splattering high against the wall. The Nyx roared, revealing a mouth filled with rows upon rows of jagged teeth, and another eye on the end of a drooping, tentacle-like tongue. Confronted with such a grotesque sight, Claire hesitated for a moment, until she heard the chatter of Ada's rifle she had dug from the pile. The eye quivered under her burst of gunfire, the sound different than the other attacks. Were they finally hurting it, she wondered. Remembering her own advice, Claire pulled the grenade launcher from her back, firing a round into the monster's closing maw. A moment too late, the sharp teeth of the monster shattered under the explosive round, gray filth spewing forth from the wound. The Nyx lumbered forward, apparently unharmed by the attack, but slowed by the damage to its leg. Claire flipped the launcher open, ejecting the smoking round and inserting another explosive-tipped canister.

"Move it, kid," yelled Ada, intensifying her attack on the creature's backside. "It won't be slow forever!"

Before Ada had finished her sentence, Claire saw for herself what she meant. Flesh seemingly appeared out of nowhere from the gaping wound, fluid dripping and somehow solidifying to take the shape of a leg. Torn between the choice of two meals, the creature decided the one on the ground was better, charging towards Claire with renewed vigor. With each lopping gait, the monster splashed more and more of its acidic fluid on the floor, the smell of burning concrete filling the air.

"Tell me who is there with you, Ada," Wesker demanded.

"Some kid I found here," she replied, running along the catwalk, spraying the monster below with her machine gun. "Can we talk about this later," she asked, tossing the spent weapon aside.

"Have no illusions that we will, Ada," he said coolly. Wesker hated being kept in the dark about anything and everything. Despite her perilous situation, Ada smiled.

"How about giving me a suggestion to exploiting its eye weakness instead," she asked, looking around the room for something of use.

"An exposure to intense lighting, or an explosion in its central eye could disrupt the integrity of the Nyx matrix, but it would have to be on a rather large scale to be effective," Wesker suggested.

"Bright like a flashbulb, or bright like solar flares? Because I doubt I'm finding either down here."

"It's impossible to say; it all depends on the strength of the Nyx's system as a whole, which grows over time."

"Meaning, the longer it lives, the tougher it gets?"

"Simply put, yes."

A crash from below interrupted their dialogue, and Ada could see Claire scrambling up a ladder, its base being wrenched by the Nyx's jaws. Leaping over the railing, Ada landed in a roll, sprinting towards the stack of weapons that Claire had rummaged through earlier. She grabbed another submachine gun and began to fire at the Nyx as it scaled the wall, its claws digging into the concrete walls. Claire added to the assault with her handgun as she ran, and somehow the two gave the monster pause. Or so they thought. A hump on its back began to shudder, the rumble of pus churning under the skin, until it burst, launching large pieces of diseased flesh in every direction. Ada dove behind a stack of tires, hearing the splash of that awful substance around her. Some of these pieces found their way to the catwalk above Claire, dripping caustic fluid on her. One drop touched her hand, and she winced in pain, the skin sizzling and smoking from the acidity.

But as quickly as the attack had started, it stopped, and the creature seemed to be slowed, moving sluggishly along the wall. The eyelid on its back suddenly opened, and Claire saw her chance. Firing a grenade round directly into the pupil, the eye ruptured in a flood of grayish pus. The Nyx howled in pain, losing its grip from the wall as it plummeted to the ground below, stunned.

Peering from behind her cover, Ada saw the fallen creature and ran again to the pile of weapons and gear. She remembered seeing a small satchel, and soon found it buried under some half-melted shotgun. Flipping it open, she found the remainder of C4 the team had brought with them. She would have preferred something simpler, like dynamite, but she was well versed enough in C4 to handle it without much difficulty.

The signal fuse was simple enough, but she wondered if it would hold up against the Nyx's biological defenses, a fluid discharge corrosive enough to melt steel. Wrapping the clay-like substance carefully around her knife's handle, she jabbed the detonator into it. She glided silently towards the fallen creature, the knife held tightly in her hands.

Poised over the creature, she could actually see through its sheen of skin, a semi-transparent layer of flesh holding the whole, bubbling mass together. Beneath it, she could see the faces of men, twisted masks of terrifying visage. And to add to that horror, she could see that their eyes were aware; they knew exactly where they were, their mouths frozen in silent screams. One recently absorbed soldier thrashed about for a moment before becoming still, his limbs dissolving into a reddish mist.

Realizing that she might soon join those men, Ada hesitated for barely a breath before plunging the knife into the beast's exposed eye.

--

The office was chilly, colder than she had remembered it ever being. Perhaps it was her recent time in the jungle climate that had altered her perspective; she'd always entertained the belief that she was cold-blooded, after all. But she brushed that thought aside, sitting in the chair across from the man she considered to truly embody the term cold-blooded. Wesker wore his usual expression, that being none at all. It was one hell of a poker face.

Ada sat in silence for a minute, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing, intent to stare at her. His eyes were impossible to read behind those dark sunglasses of his, and any other mannerisms that might have given away his emotions were nonexistent.

"You've read my report, I assume," she finally said. While she disliked being the one to broach a conversation, it was better than sitting in complete silence under that icy gaze of his.

"I have," he said, nodding once. Folding his gloved hands neatly, his eyes never seemed to leave her; he had only looked at her this way once before, when she had left for her first mission.

"And…? Any thoughts on the Nyx combat data?"

"It's not so much what you say in the report, but what you don't say," he replied, watching her pour a drink from a carafe on his desktop.

"What is this? I'm a little too tired for this cat-and-mouse BS today, Wesker," she said, sipping the drink. "You called, I'm here, what's the deal?"

"It…surprises me to hear you being so…direct, Ada. Has something…changed? In you…in me…I hope not. We were such a good team…"

She caught the inflection of his tone before his use of the past tense. The lip of her glass was just at her mouth when it came to her. Their eyes met over the drink, and both moved simultaneously. Ada flung the glass at him, reaching for the gun she always kept tucked at her back. Wesker rose and darted smoothly around his desk, somehow covering five paces in the time it took her to stand. He pinned her arm behind her back, shoving her down against the hard wooden desk. Flicking her handgun aside, his other hand reached for her throat, his grip like a vise. He tossed her against the wall, the steel panel denting around her. She felt ribs crack, and before she could pull herself out, his hand was at her throat again, lifting her clear off her feet and crushing her against the wall.

"Have I not been good to you all these years, Ada? Have I not given you all you needed, all you wanted? And to get word of your betrayal, talking to some foolish lapdog from Pharmaceutical Salon," he asked, shaking his head. "All that time, training, and money…for naught," he sighed, his grip tightening.

"Funny…coming…from…you," Ada gasped, white spots dancing before her eyes. Wesker laughed.

"The first, most important lesson of betrayal, my dear," he said, pulling her closer. "Guarantee success _before_ laying your cards on the table. Did I really need to teach you that? To think, I had such high hopes for you," he added, shaking his head.

The world flashed white before Ada's eyes, and she knew she didn't have much oxygen left. She raised her right knee sharply, hard into Wesker's jaw. Stumbling back, she landed on her feet and rubbed her throat gingerly. He stood between her and her gun, a tight smile on his lips. He reset the sunglasses on his nose, crossing his arms as if he had all the time in the world.

"You think you gave me what I wanted? You son of a bitch, you made me your slave," she spat. "You and your damned serum…"

Wesker dismissed her passionate words with a casual wave of his hand. "Oh, that? You don't really think that serum was meant to keep you alive, do you? Still…?"

"Wha-what are you talking about?"

"It was a serum, true. But if I were to truly classify it, I would say it was more of a 'drug'. Its purpose wasn't to help you resist a virus…merely an excuse to load you up with the drug. Best of all, it's addictive quality made you consciously want more of the same, and withdrawal would duplicate the symptoms I had my faithful servant Cindy detail to you. In that regard, you're no different that any other drug addict on the street."

"But…I…you're lying!"

"There is no reason for me to lie now," he said calmly. "Does it sadden you to hear the truth, that there was no virus within you to make your body stronger and faster, like me? You can draw some satisfaction that every task you performed, every feat you achieved, was in part due to your own skill. But in the end, whatever meager skill you possess on your own is still not nearly enough to equal the edge given to me by this virus," he said, pausing. "That is why, my dear, you can never hope to beat me," he added, charging forward in a blur of motion. His gloved fist slammed into her stomach, and he spun as it connected, backhanding her with his other hand, the smack sending her sprawling to the floor. "So similar, and yet…so different, you and me," he said, a trace of sadness in his voice as he stared at the blood on his hand.

"You're scum, Wesker," she gasped, rolling to her feet. His punch had splintered some of her rib bones; she could feel them digging into her stomach. He still stood between her and her only hope: her handgun.

"And you can barely stand," he said, his eyes never leaving her. "You really think you can reach that pistol of yours before my next attack," he asked, an amused expression on his face. "Were I a gambling man, I might allow you a chance to reach your weapon and see just how dangerous you can be…but I am not such a fool. I plan. I wait. I calculate. I know exactly what will happen, when, and why."

"Then why are you acting so surprised," she asked, trying to keep him talking. A few more much needed breaths, and she might have a chance to catch him off guard. But still…she had never in her life seen someone move so fast. Even advanced bio-weapons bred for combat, like the Alpha Hunter, paled in comparison to his speed. If she did manage to get to her handgun, would she have time to turn and fire it?

"Your betrayal was inevitable," Wesker admitted. "But my disappointment comes more from the ease of which you exposed your deceit. To think, my top operative talking to a rival agency and not expecting me to have my own mole within that organization…it is such a sad day, Ada. Like a parent realizing their child is without merit, without hope. There was a time you were useful to me, but now…now, I can barely stand to look at you, and all that you represent: _failure_."

"I didn't always fail," she coughed, clearing the blood from her throat.

"You mean those times you helped the Redfields out," he asked with a dark laugh. "I would hardly call those successes, for they will all die soon enough. At my leisure, of course."

"You…knew?"

"Of course; nothing escapes my notice for long. It was your own conceit that blinded you to this fact, Ada. Your foolish pride that made you think you could ever successfully betray me, hiding from your own sensibility that I was on to you the entire time, watching you, guiding you, manipulating you."

Her eyes seethed with hatred, his words ringing true. She rose shakily to her feet, the pain in her chest agonizing. Every breath was torture, her lungs dying for air, but expanding into sharp, broken bones.

"You look as if you are going to cry," said Wesker, that mocking sincerity returning. "Don't tarnish my image of you, Ada. I watched you die once, and I…liked what I saw. You, of all people, should know how to die with dignity."

Sensing his attack coming, Ada had no choice but to move. She somersaulted to her left, hoping to avoid his first strike, feeling a gust of wind rush past her. So, he could miss after all. Expecting a backhanded follow up, she tucked into a ball, rolling low towards her gun. She felt the cool steel in her fingers for just a moment before she felt his knee dig savagely into her back, crushing her against the metallic floor. Wesker flipped her over roughly, staring her in the face.

"Tell me why, Ada," he demanded, something that might have been emotion creeping into his voice. "This is the life you'd always wanted; I was never cruel to you, I never abused you…before I kill you, I want you to tell me why."

She looked up at him, his face untouched by the years, the frigid aura so much the same. But despite his physical appearance remaining the same, she felt something different from him. Was he upset? Was that passion she had heard in his words?

Ada coughed, the pain intensifying, blood bubbling on her lips. She remembered something her mother had told her long ago, a cautionary moral that she had forgotten until then.

"Once we…let ourselves fall…there's…no way back," she whispered.

Behind tinted lenses, Wesker's eyes darkened for a moment as he wrapped his fingers tightly around her soft throat and began to squeeze.

--

"Le—sir, are you sure we can finish this operation with just the three of us," asked Harper.

"I thought you said you were the best," Leon replied. "Or was that all bullshit?"

"I never said anything that wasn't true. But some of that battle data Graham gave us…I'm beginning to wonder now…"

"About what," asked Bernard.

"If the data was as favorable as it seemed, why has it taken so long for them to take out the target?"

"Finding a single person in the world can be quite difficult, much less a young girl," Leon answered.

"A young girl? What the hell do you mean…ah, sir?"

"You don't know," Bernard asked incredulously. "What _do_ you know about the target?"

"It kills Americans," Harper replied with a shrug. "That's all I needed to hear to volunteer."

"You Americans," Bernard began. "You're content to sit on your behinds when the rest of the world is blown up, but when a little bit of egg so much as splatters on your face, it's suddenly the end of the world."

"Yeah, so what?"

"Just something amusing," shrugged Bernard. "We should be arriving at the waypoint soon, sir."

But Leon was already a dozen paces ahead of them, scouting the terrain. He turned back to them, waving them over.

"Someone's been moving through the woods ahead of us," Leon whispered to them. "Someone who knows how to cover their tracks, too."

"Could it be our target?"

"No, the target has made no secret of her location. To cover her tracks goes completely against the profile we've been given."

"If it's even accurate," mumbled Harper.

"Sherry's no mountain survivalist," Leon said. "It isn't her."

"You're talking like you know her," said Bernard, eyeing Leon keenly.

"She was one of the other survivors from the Raccoon City outbreak," Leon replied. "She actually saved the rest of us at one point," he added, smiling at the memory.

"And you can still kill her," Bernard asked gruffly, turning to face Leon. "Sir?"

"I'll do what I can to help her," he answered, looking away. "That's all."

His vague answer seemed to satisfy Bernard, who didn't bring it up again. The threesome began to move deeper into the thick forest, the sun touching the far horizon.

Harper had taken the point, his alert eyes scanning the thick trees for danger, when a branch suddenly whipped around a tree trunk into his face. He stumbled back, entangled in the branch's grip, when Bernard stepped over to help him. He too found a branch slap at him, dumping a pile of leaves on him. Leon spun in the confusion, looking for a sign of the enemy, when he felt the barrel of a gun dig into his back.

"You've gotten sloppy," she whispered softly into his ear. "Drop it, Leon."

Leon signaled to his men to follow suit, confident they were in no danger.

"It's been awhile…Claire," he said, turning to face her. He was expecting a smile, but instead found an unfamiliar scowl on her face. It had been less than six months since he last saw her, when she'd given him his bomber jacket upon release from the county lockup.

"You can lower the gun," he said carefully. "Claire…?"

"You-fucking-asshole," she said accusingly, her eyes damp with angry tears. She didn't lower her gun.

"Former girlfriend of yours, Captain," asked Harper jokingly. Bernard hushed him, watching the woman carefully. If she had any modicum of skill, she could shoot all three of them before he could reach and fire his weapon, but they were armored, and would probably survive her initial attack. Unless she went for their heads.

"Stay out of this," ordered Leon, his eyes focused on Claire.

"Captain, huh," she asked, her eyes cold. "Is that how they reeled you in, Leon? A promotion for the life of our—my friend? Is your loyalty, your honor, _that_ cheap? Or is the life of a little girl just that worthless to you…?"

"Claire, it's not like that," he began. "This isn't about me, or you…it's about Sherry, and what's she become…"

"So tell me about it, then. Why didn't you feel the need to tell me about it, huh Leon," she asked, the pain showing plainly in her eyes. Leon recognized that pain; he saw it in the mirror everyday. It was a feeling of betrayal.

"I promised," replied Leon slowly. "That I would take care of her. This is the only way _anyone_ can help her now."

"So this is what you meant when you promised that? That you'd murder her? Just like that," she cried angrily, the gun wavering slightly in her hands.

He sighed. "Claire…I don't _want _to do this. I never wanted it to end like this. I wish she had never gotten involved, that you never got hurt in this, that you two could just lead happy, safe lives…"

"Safe? You want a safe life for her, and you're trying to kill her? Just like all that other scum dancing to Umbrella's tune?"

"This isn't about Umbrella, Claire…it's about that virus in her getting out of control. She's killed god knows how many people, but that's nothing compared to what might happen if she were to infect the general populace…"

"You really do sound the part of the government lapdog now," she said, wiping a frustrated tear away. "But I suppose that's always been your dream, right? To live through someone else's orders, to have no thought, no conscience…just your precious duty."

Harper chuckled quietly. "Precious doody," he giggled to himself.

"Young lady," interrupted Bernard, casting Harper a warning glance. "While you may be partly right, we are not in a position to gain happiness nor enjoyment from this mission's outcome. Someone has to do this. It may as well be those who care for Sherry."

"What do you know," Claire asked him angrily, swinging her gun around to him. "What do you know about that little girl?"

"I know more than you think," he replied desolately, seemingly oblivious of the gun leveled at his chest. "I know that, as a child, her favorite color was blue…and that she'd only wear blue dresses, even blue socks. I know her favorite ice cream flavor was strawberry, half-melted and mixed with chocolate. I know her best subject in school, like her parents, was science, but it was really art and music that she loved," he continued. "And I know that she's scared and alone, and the sweet little girl I watched grow up wouldn't want to live with what's she become," he added, closing his eyes.

"You lie," Claire said doubtfully, but the sincerity in his words had already convinced her.

"How…how do you know all that," asked Leon, his face a mask of confusion and disbelief.

"I once had a little sister, several years younger than me," he replied matter-of-factly. "I was away, fighting in some foolish war when her daughter was born, but by the time I returned, I'd seen the happiest my sister had ever been. She loved her husband, of course, but until that day Sherry was born, I don't think Annette knew what loving someone else truly meant," he said wistfully. "Nor did I. Those two were—are the only family I have…so you see, doing this, even if it's the last thing I do, is the most important thing I could ever do for my sister and my niece. To bring them together again…I know that would give them some bit of happiness."

"I—I'm sorry," Claire apologized, finally lowering her gun. "I didn't know."

"It's nothing you did, miss," he said kindly. "Annette began to take the thing she valued most in the world—her family—for granted. And Sherry paid the price. I can't let her suffer anymore, and I won't let William's legacy destroy the last shreds of my family's name," he added, his voice thick with conviction.

"Bernard," Leon began, struggling for words. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I was afraid I would be passed over because of my familial relationship," replied the man tiredly. "A conflict of interests, so to speak. But really, if anyone should have to do this terrible, terrible thing, it should be those that care, those that appreciate how brave and strong that little girl always was. It should be those that love her there in her last moments, holding her hand, putting her at peace."

Claire wiped away the last of her tears at his heartfelt confession, a bit embarrassed by her display of so much emotion in front of two complete strangers. But though she considered him a stranger, Claire found herself connecting with Bernard, his terribly sad, yet familiar words resonating in her heart. At that moment, she missed Chris more than ever.

"I'm going with you," she said finally. And there was something in her tone, her face, that Leon knew nothing he said nor did would stop her.

--

The head of the cleanup crew entered the office, a quiet and utterly uninspired middle-aged man. He had once possessed a fair degree of ambition, but the grind of everyday life had worn him down, nearly sapping his very will to live. It was only the ready flow of Wesker's money that kept him going, the dream of owning nicer things. His last wife had called him a stingy miser, happier to look at his money rather than spend it on the things worth looking at. She had walked out on him two years earlier, the last of three malcontent ex-wives. But there had been one other thing keeping him going, one person who kept him getting out of bed every morning.

And now she lay in a pile of broken furniture and glass, her once beautiful face bruised and battered, a pool of blood gathered about her body. The man put on a strong face, hiding the pain in his heart, knowing any betrayal of emotion before Wesker was the same as betraying his cause.

"Excellent timing, Daniel," said Wesker, nonchalantly righting his fallen office chair. "Please dispose of…that. Leave the rest of the mess for tomorrow. I would be left alone for now," he added, swiveling his chair away.

"Of course, Mr. Wesker," replied Daniel. He touched Ada's skin, expecting some warmth, but found it startlingly cold. He had once thought of it as fine porcelain, and that was what it felt like; the connection of reality meeting his dreams sickened him. But he swallowed it down, taking her up in his arms and carrying her to the waiting gurney in the hallway. "I'll have Anderson and the rest of the crew clean up your office by tomorrow morning, sir."

Wesker raised his finger slightly in response, never turning to face the man. With a press of a button by his massive chair, the door slammed shut behind Daniel, locking.

Laying his love gently on the gurney, Daniel fought the urge to caress her broken body, knowing vigilant eyes were always watching. So fighting all impulses, he instead pushed the cart slowly down towards the morgue.

* * *

_Note: I had originally named Graham "David", but my little nephew is named that, so I couldn't in good conscience name one of the key bastards in this whole little soap opera that. I switched it to "Davis", which has a much more Southern-ness quality to it, which I thought fit more with his character anyways. I was kind of reluctant to make him seem racist, but I think it's more that minorities are numbers to him, groups…not individuals. So he's not necessarily racist, as one of his best friends was black, but he is damn insensitive. _

_The Nyx creature was something I had wanted to put in the story long ago, but wasn't sure how I could incorporate a mindless juggernaut that somehow gets stopped. Another thing I had actually been planning was Ada making a reference to the Outbreak File 2 characters who actually defeated one, connecting it to another fanfic I was working on, with Kevin, David, Nathan, and Alyssa making it out through the Nyx (for those who've read my Outbreak fanfic, I had considered separating Alyssa from the rest). While I left the last part of the battle a mystery, the version I wrote would lessen the impact of the next chapter… _

_Ada's betrayal didn't quite play out the way I had planned, but I decided simplicity was the path to take, and to give Wesker a chance to talk a bit. I like the idea of Wesker being so distraught that he doesn't use an elaborate plan to dispose of her, just beats the hell out of her until she dies. I kept repeating Ada's last line to myself, because that to me defined her character at that point. It's a line I had read in a manga about a prostitute-swordswoman who doesn't have the heart to be either, and that dichotomy keeps her from understanding her place in the world. For Ada, it was relenting to Wesker all those years ago that turned her into something she didn't want to be. However, don't expect this to be the end of her. _


	23. The circle begins to close

**_The circle begins to close_**

Her neck was an accordion of dark bruises and crimson fingerprints, the muscles knotted and the tendons broken. Wesker had really done a number on her; Daniel couldn't remember the last time Wesker had killed someone with his own two hands. And yet, Daniel couldn't shake the feeling that Wesker was unhappy about that fact. Strangling a beautiful woman with only your hands, staring her in the face as you finished it, the eyes bulging for just a moment before settling into a quiet serenity…something about that appealed to his dark sensibilities.

Her face was peaceful, a small bruise formed on her cheek, but still something he couldn't help but stare at. Dark hair spilled about her head, some of it matted with blood, but the rest soft and fragrant. Her normally cloudy eyes were closed, and he would have given anything to see them open, staring at him with that mischievous sparkle he had fallen for.

He ran his thumb gently across her eyelid, hoping against hope for a sign of life. Cupping her striking face in his hand, he couldn't help but hate Wesker, a man who had rescued him from the mundane mediocrity of his old life. But the moment passed quickly, and he continued his long trek to dispose of the body.

Dreams of walking hand in hand along the beach, dancing under the stars, and making love beneath soft covers flashed again before his closed eyes, dreams dashed and gone forever. But if there was one thing Wesker taught him, it was that forever is subjective. Where there had once been death, he had seen life restored.

Turning the corner, Daniel decided what he would do. The laboratory was on the way to the disposal facility, and one of the scientists owed him a favor for incinerating the corpse of his unfaithful wife in the middle of the night. Something could be done. No…something _had _to be done. Daniel had watched woman after woman walk out on him, never raising his voice, never fighting to keep her. Wesker might have callously cost him his one true love, but at the same time, Wesker had also provided him the means to keep her. Forever.

He hurried down the hallway.

--

The foursome walked in silence, Leon and Harper in the front, Claire and Bernard pulling up the flank. They were four hours behind the projected timetable, and would soon have to switch over to night vision. And with an additional person, supplies were thinned ever more. Someone would have to go blind once the sun had set completely.

"I'll do it," Harper volunteered, his eyes never straying far from Claire's body. The other men looked at him with surprise at his offer.

"No need," she replied casually. "I'll be fine without it."

"Claire…we have no idea what to expect up ahead," pleaded Leon. She didn't seem to hear him.

"He's right…it's not a bad idea to have one," added Bernard. It was only after hearing his words that she responded.

"Alright, alright," she said. "I'll take one."

A cold autumn wind cut through the bare trees, caressing the rolling mountain ranges and rustling fallen leaves. The night was bright, illuminated by the full moon that hung low overhead, nearly touching the low mountaintops in the distance. The season had been characteristically chilly, but there was something else in the air that night that made the group collectively shiver.

Little did they realize, inhuman eyes gazed intently at them from high above, glassy eyes reflecting cold purpose. With a flutter of wings, the crow took off into the dark sky, shadowing the group. Behind its impenetrable eyes pulsed a sensory receptor, transmitting the vision to its host and master.

"C-Claire…?"

But whatever triggered that faint memory, it could recall nothing else, fading back into darkness.

--

"Congratulations, Daddy!" squealed the girl brightly, leaping into her father's arms. Despite his newfound position and success, he couldn't help but redden at her bubbling, contagious joy.

"Mr. President," bowed one of his aides. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Wesley," Graham said, composing himself. "And you too, honey," he added, setting her back down after kissing her cheek. She clasped her hands tightly to her chest, so happy for her father's victory that she neglected to realize just how much her own life would be impacted by this change. But watching him shake hands and pat backs, nothing could knock her off her cloud.

"Ashley, stop crowding your father," lectured her mother, who kissed her husband quickly on the cheek. Even that chaste gesture caused her embarrassment, waving to the cameras and supporters surrounding their family.

"Leave her be, Deborah," said the President-elect. "The public voted all the Grahams up here, not just one of us," he said, pulling his wife and daughter close for a photograph.

Hours passed. The stream of flashes had begun to dwindle, the whirlwind slowing, when they decided to return home.

"You two go ahead with Monten," said Graham. "I have a few things to finish up at the office."

"'The office'…just hearing that makes me so proud of you, Davis," his wife said softly, clutching his hand tightly. "My husband, the President…"

"President-elect," he reminded her. "And you still have school to get back to, young lady," Graham chided Ashley, who was clearly exhausted. "What kind of example are you going to set if you're half-asleep all the time?"

"Daddy, I don't have classes on Friday…" Ashley replied, yawning. "College isn't like high school."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that now, because I won't put up with paying that high tuition unless you can keep up good grades…this isn't going to be a breeze like the past few years."

"My dad the President," sighed Ashley. "Not only can he run a country, he can still find time to lecture me…"

"Ashley!" gasped her mother, shocked at her daughter's tone. Her father laughed, hugging them both and seeing them to the car. He stood under the streetlight, watching their car until its taillights disappeared around the corner, before he returned inside.

The hidden communication panel built into his desk had cost a pretty penny, but money wasn't an issue like it used to be. It was power that mattered; cash could come later. And with his new office, of this he was certain. The flashing light told him he had an incoming call, and he wasn't surprised. Graham took his time getting settled in, pouring himself a low glass of lukewarm whiskey, wishing it was bourbon. The brownish liquid seemed to settle him, reclining deeply into his chair before finally opening his end of the communicator. That familiar face came onto the screen, his former cash cow and campaign manager.

"Congratulations…Mr. President," said Wesker, bowing his head ever so slightly.

"What is it, Albert," Graham asked, making no secret of his annoyance. "I'm very busy."

"I could tell," said Wesker, stroking his chin. "That was quite the party. But I hope you haven't forgotten who your…friends are, Davis."

"Friends come and go, Wesker," Graham said defiantly. "I expected you of all people to know that."

"Like Gerald, Mr. President," Wesker said offhandedly. "But I don't disappear that easy, my friend…unless I choose to."

Graham fought his astonishment, finding his poker face. "Don't think you can threaten me, Wesker. I've been at this game longer than you've been alive."

"I don't know about that, Mr. President…I've been around for a _very, long_ time…the only thing longer is my memory. Why, I remember a time you were desperate for funding, searching for a means to put your free healthcare and pharmaceutical system into place. I doubt your memory is so short that you'd forget who it was you came to…"

"It isn't my memory that's short, Wesker, but my patience," replied Graham coldly. "You know as well as I that you have no power over me. There's no documentation and no evidence or any relationship between us, so trying to connect me to your history of wrongdoing is impossible."

"Is that so? And how can you be so certain?"

"Because we wouldn't be having this conversation if you had any kind of leverage on me. Now, either you show me what you have, or stay the hell away. I am not an enemy you want to make, Wesker."

Wesker sighed, and Graham knew only something bad could follow that insincere sigh.

"You disappoint me, Davis. All those promises and dreams of yours. To think, it was I who helped put them within your reach, and look how quickly you forget. It's heartbreaking, Davis…simply heartbreaking. But I made this call to congratulate you, not to remind you of any obligation you might feel you have towards me for my constant support and contributions. I suppose you are tired after such a long day, so very weary with all the congratulations. If that's the case, perhaps I can extend my sincere…congratulations to your lovely family. What do you think of that, Mr. President?"

"You son of a bitch," whispered Graham.

"Oh, do you find that inappropriate, old friend? I'm just anxious to look out for them; you can never be too careful with the…dangers of living in the public eye. Especially for such a lovely creature as your daughter Ashley…"

"If you touch one hair—"

"Threats, Davis? That's not befitting a man of your position," said Wesker, his voice dropping to a lusty whisper as he leaned forward. "Only the lowliest of the low would do such things. Besides, it seems to me your driver is quite dedicated to protecting her…"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm watching it now; you would truly appreciate his loyalty, Graham," sighed Wesker, sitting back into his chair. "It's so heroic, watching him struggle to fight off so many dangerous men. Men dedicated to another cause with equal vigor and passion. Isn't it…tragic to watch young men die for the causes of old men?"

"You lying bastard! An entire convoy of Secret Service was with them!"

"Yes, they…_were_. You train such good men, Graham. Perhaps after your term is done, you can come on board with me and help train my men…"

"I'll see you in hell first."

"Something to look forward to, I suppose. But in my defense, Davis, I am not behind the kidnapping of your daughter, nor the slaughter of your men. I am but a helpless observer in this ever deadly world."

"Get to the point, Wesker," demanded Graham, his head reeling. Neither his wife nor daughter was answering her cell phone. He tried again, tucking the phone in his lap, out of sight.

"Like I said, I was only checking on them to convey my congratulations, and then saw some dangerous men snatch your daughter away…large, burly men with scarred faces and venomous eyes."

"Bullshit, Wesker."

"Would I lie to my friends?"

"With every breath, you son of a bitch."

"Perhaps before…but now I'm a changed man, Davis. Your success has shown me what I too can achieve with the right focus and desire, all with but a fraction of integrity. You've made it all possible, my friend, and for that, I sincerely thank you. In fact, I have my suspicions about where those goons took your precious Ashley…"

"Then tell me already," Graham yelled, crushing his useless cell phone in his hand.

Wesker yawned, looking down deliberately at his watch. "Sorry Davis, but something's come up; I'll have to get back to you after I return from my vacation. Europe is so lovely this time of year…"

"Wesker…!" screamed Graham, but the screen had turned black. Wesker had hung up on him.

--

"I'm here," said Wesker into the phone. "Do you have her?"

"I do, Mr. Wesker," said the voice on the other end, gruff and heavy.

"Good work, Krauser. Did Mr. Monten live up to his…reputation?"

"He was quite skilled, sir, but not nearly enough. I didn't have time to finish him off, however…"

"He's unimportant," replied Wesker. "And the wife?"

"She fainted, so I left her; bitch didn't even so much as scream. I doubted she could handle such an ordeal, and your report said that she's not that valuable a bargaining chip with Graham anyways."

"Good thinking. Perhaps you'll end up being useful to me after all…"

"…I'm sorry about that sample, sir, but there was absolutely _nothing_ left…"

"I normally don't tolerate failure, but in this _one_ instance I shall…forgive your mistakes in light of your more recent success. Still, I wouldn't recommend failure becoming a thing of habit, Krauser."

"Absolutely not, Mr. Wesker. I am heading to the destination point for the handoff to Saddler; we should reach it in about 15 hours. Did you drop the bait for Graham?"

"Only a fool would miss the hint I gave him, and he has no choice but to pursue it. He should be sending in our distraction within 24 hours…"

"Giving me ample opportunity to steal the sample…"

"If you are able. Do not overextend yourself, Krauser. I have someone else in mind to take care of the…'delicate' parts."

"Someone else…you still don't trust me?"

"I trust no one…remember that. But she and I have…history."

"She? You're sending in a damned woman to help me?"

"Sometimes a woman's touch is absolutely essential for success."

"If you say so," Krauser said, his disappointment obvious.

"With the…failure of the G-Virus recovery, it is essential that I obtain a sample of Las Plagas. Only then will our ultimate goal appear within reach…"

"Umbrella…? You can really bring it back? You can restore chaos to this world?"

"Would you be here if you didn't believe that?"

--

The years had passed slowly for the survivors, but the woods had remained untouched by the passage of time. Development of the region had slowed with the decontamination process, halting to a practical stop. Businesses were eager to pounce on the low cost of production and land prices, but few employees were willing to relocate to a place with such a tragic history. Despite human curiosity often leaning towards the morbid side of nature, most, if not all people swung wide berth of Raccoon City.

The silence of the woods reflected this change; the hilly land was nothing but a lifeless husk of its former self. Where there had once been lush forests with an abundance of wildlife was now dead greenery and barren land. Only weeds grew where vibrant trees had once blossomed, only dirt where there had once been thick grass. Conservationists had tried in vain to repair the damage, but they were run off by the unspoken terrors of the night, their own fear. History had a way of creeping up on people.

Leon asked himself again why Sherry had come back here. There were better research facilities spread all over the world, and not just Umbrella ones. She had her pick of the litter, after all. Who could stop her? Even if it was the eye of the authorities she was trying to evade, reports had indicated she made no secret of her location. It was as if she was daring them to come after her. Why had she grown so reckless when she had once been so cautious? She had literally disappeared off their radar on three separate occasions, and resurfaced to their awareness at her own discretion.

He looked at the group surrounding him. Claire was talking with Bernard again; she hadn't strayed more than a few feet from him since they met. Leon couldn't honestly see anything between them, but age difference wasn't such an issue with the ladies, he'd been told. Shaking the thought from his head, he returned to the task at hand. As team leader and commanding officer, completing the task and getting everyone back alive was his top priority. Harper didn't seem to be all about business either, leering at Claire's figure from a safe distance. Jealousy was not an emotion Leon was familiar with, but considering the situation, he decided it wasn't a matter of his own feelings; it was for the benefit of the whole unit.

"Harper," he whispered forcefully. "Keep an eye out for the enemy."

"That's what I'm doing, Cap," he replied.

"I know what you're keeping an eye out for, soldier," he said sternly.

"Yeah, we can't have both of us looking at that, right…sir?"

"Watch it, Lieutenant," warned Leon, but he knew, deep down, that Harper was right. Claire still refused to acknowledge him, and he couldn't help but stare at her, now more than ever.

"The mansion is just up ahead, sir," Bernard said from the front. "Over that hill, it'll be less than a click away."

"Alright, stay in formation," ordered Leon. "Keep your heads down when we reach the top."

The Spencer estate had once been famed amongst the architectural elite. Designer George Trevor had labored for years on his last project, creating a mansion that was foreboding, yet oddly welcoming. He had created a layered castle, its maze-like format puzzling to even those who built it. Every eccentric billionaire in the world wanted their own Spencer estate; the elusive dream of their own, personal Xanadu given substance. Trevor had breathed life into Spencer's mad desires, and he had satisfied them down to the last brick before his mysterious disappearance.

But that estate was long gone, destroyed during STARS' dramatic escape from the premises nearly six years earlier. What they had unearthed in that mansion would eventually spill into the nearby city, costing thousands upon thousands of lives. Government protocol stepped in at that point, wiping out the last traces of Raccoon City. The military, assisted by deputies, SWAT, and the National Guard, combed the woods, killing and incinerating any animal they came across. Thick smoke from the bonfires had filled the skies for days, the foul stench of burning flesh still lingering in the air, even years later. Or perhaps that was just some long distant memory, Leon thought to himself.

"Why the hell would the freak come here," asked Harper, who crawled up between Bernard and Claire, who shot him an annoyed glance. The four looked down upon the rubble, and it looked exactly as one would expect a blown up building to look like. The entire support system for the mansion had collapsed and burned, leaving nothing but a pile of broken marble and ash. A few of the thicker walls remained intact, the higher sections toppled.

"Reports indicate the lower level remained mostly intact," replied Bernard, unbothered by Harper's uncomforting closeness. "I guess an area this remote was exactly what she wanted."

"For what, though," Claire asked.

"Your guess is as good as ours," Leon said honestly.

"That's comforting," she muttered, and despite any sarcasm, Leon was glad she was at least acknowledging him again.

"Does it really matter at this point?"

"I guess not," she replied to Harper, who was itching for action.

"You sure you can work that thing? It's pretty advanced," he asked.

"I've seen my brother do it before," she said. "Looks pretty simple to me…lighter than I thought it would be, too."

"Just like any other gun: point and shoot," added Bernard. "Remember though, you only have two shots with it, and then the core is done…so aim carefully."

"You sure you want me to use this? One of you will be without yours," she wondered.

"I prefer the good ol' M4 anyways," said Harper with a wink, patting his gun.

"Let's move," Leon said sullenly, as he began to slide quietly down the slope.

--

The fall of the house of Usher, one of the other soldiers had called it, the reference to Poe's classic lost on most of the uneducated fighting men. But Leon had understood, and he saw it now for himself.

He had seen the remains before, of course, in the stock photos of Graham's report. He had also seen the castle before its fall in a picture from over two decades ago, the only known photograph of the building when it was standing. The late night news outlets would still run the old story once in awhile when desperate for a human-interest story, still trying to cash in on the tragedy.

And yet seeing the remains all those times, he was still unprepared for what he saw. Walking through the husk of the estate, he could feel its age, the foreboding sense that the evil had been borne here all those years ago. When had it started? When the mansion was built? When Umbrella was founded? No one would ever know, the mysteries lost forever in the explosion that destroyed the great house.

Moonlight poured freely into the ruins, through broken wall sections and cracked supports, bathing the area in a pale blue monochrome. The night had been generous for once, granting them light to work by, leaving their night vision sets alone. Leon hated the equipment, personally, and was thankful that at least one thing had gone their way.

"Still no sign of anything," whispered Bernard. "This isn't right, Captain."

"At ease, soldier," said Leon, reaching for a burnt out door. "Just be sure to have your weapons at the ready; we might need them at a moment's notice." The metal gate swung heavily on a broken hinge before snapping and crashing to the floor.

"Stealthy as ever," muttered Claire. As Leon turned back quickly to reply, he saw her eyes widen in surprise, and spun back towards the door. The girl sat casually on a pile of blackened rubble, a slice of moonlight illuminating her pale features. She cast shadowed, sunken eyes on them.

"Welcome," she greeted. "Welcome back."

--

"Sherry," cried Claire, running forward, but stopping when she saw her young friend's face. Claire hoped the girl would remember her this time; she had nearly left her and Ada for dead in the jungle facility months earlier.

"You again," said the girl, tilting her head slightly. "I thought you'd have learned your lesson after South America."

"You knew we were coming, didn't you," asked Leon, stepping through the passage. "How?"

"Oh, a little birdie told me," she said coyly, gesturing at the murder of crows that had silently gathered along the top of the broken walls. "But I suppose that doesn't really interest you…"

"Why are you here, Sherry, why did you come here?"

"This is where it all began, you know. Right here in this room, in Spencer's private study. This is where he received the phone call that would change everything, this is where he decided that an unseen power was the key, hiding it in the air, in our bodies. A power worth the lives of so many innocent lives…"

Something in her gusty voice had changed, her facial expression softening. Her eyes lit up for a moment with a youthful joy, the energy wholly human and entirely healthy.

"Claire," she said, her voice younger. "What are you doing here? And…Leon?"

"You know why we're here, Sherry…"

The girl bit her lip, turning away with a tired, sad look on her face. When she turned back, that face was gone, the icy veneer returned as well.

"Ah, the virus within me…the one everyone is after. It must be worth a bit of money these days, being the last sample in the whole, wide world…"

"I think I've seen this before," Claire whispered to the others. "I studied a bit on multiple personality disorders; I think we're seeing her revert back and forth between personas…"

"So she's schizo," asked Harper, clicking his safety.

"Not the same thing," said Claire. "Similar symptoms, but—"

"What are you foolish children prattling on about," demanded Sherry, walking slowly to a broken window, running a finger along the jagged edges. "And you are just that…children, compared to me. Or perhaps amoebas is more accurate? You are so far beneath me on the evolutionary ladder that you should be begging on your knees for any attention I grant you!" Her voice grew angry, building to a scream, her eyes burning with cold fire.

"Sherry," said Bernard gently, striding forward bravely. "This isn't you; this isn't how you were raised."

"And what would the likes of you know about it, old man," sneered the girl.

"I'm your…uncle, Sherry. Remember?"

The girl's lower lip quivered for a moment, the muscle reflex showing an inner struggle.

"Uncle Bernie," she cried happily, taking a tentative step forward before pausing. They could tell she wanted to leap forward into his arms to hug and kiss him, but something was holding her back. Her entire body seemed to shake with indecisiveness, a child-like voice coming from her.

"That's right, Sherry…uncle Bernie," he said, his eyes welling up. "I've missed you sooo much, kiddo."

"You're dressed to fight," said the girl, curious. "Are you going off to fight again?"

"Yes, but I…have to. I have no choice; this is more important than all those other times…"

"Who are you fighting this time, uncle? Someone bad?"

"No…not someone bad," he replied quietly, dropping his gun to wipe his eyes.

"Then why are you fighting them? You're not…bad, are you, uncle Bernie? Mom told me you were good…"

"I am…I try…to be…"

"Be careful, uncle," warned the girl innocently. "Bad people will do whatever it takes to win…"

"That's what makes them evil," he said, kneeling down.

"And good people? What makes them good?"

"I…I guess good people know what has to be done, and no matter how much it hurts themselves, they do it because it's the right thing to do."

"But…how do you know what's 'right'?"

"Your heart will tell you, and you'll know…you'll just know, and it will take you to the right place."

"So then…you'll understand when I do this," she said softly, as a gray spike erupted suddenly from the ground, piercing Bernard's torso. He barely had time to scream before his innards were pushed through his back, the bone spike pinning his body to the wall.

"Holy shit," swore Harper, unleashing a spray of bullets with his rifle. The bullets flew true, striking Sherry in the chest and neck, puncturing her skin with wet smacks. "Eat it, you crazy bitch," he yelled, unloading the entire magazine into her falling body.

He was loading the next clip when he saw her rise, pulling the carbine's cylinder back when he heard her maniacal laugh.

"Fool," she cackled. "You think your dainty bullets will stop me?" As she stood, they could see purple blood flow upward, back into the wounds,before closing back up.

"Christ, use the linear launcher," yelled Harper, but Leon was already undoing the strap for the harness, charging up the battery.

"The Boy Scout caught unprepared," chuckled the Birkin creature. Sensing another attack coming, Leon dove to his right as a flurry of tentacles ruptured from the dirt, thin gray grabbers tearing the linear launcher to pieces. "You should've had it ready before you came in, Leon…not that it would have mattered." With a wave of her hand, more tentacles burst from the ground to grab at him, one set ensnaring Harpers' feet and pulling him down.

Claire watched this exchange wordlessly, stunned by the twist of events, her mind locked in a seesawing battle. She could clearly see that this creature was evil, and needed to be destroyed, but she had also seen Sherry, the young girl who had relied upon her for protection. Reaching for her knife, Claire ran for Harper, cutting at the vine-like growths holding him.

Leon continued to dart about the mansion's remains, a stream of vines and spikes reaching from the floors and walls to attack him. Drawing his survival knife, he swung blindly as he ran, cutting at pieces of the Birkin creature's flesh. Just when he was about to be cornered, he heard that disembodied voice behind him, the last thing Bernard had heard before he was killed.

"Foolish girl…that man is as good as dead," it said in a hollow, lifeless voice. And as Leon turned, he could see the creature walking away from him, towards Harper and Claire. Knowing it was futile, Leon grabbed desperately for his pistol, firing round after round into the creature's back, none of his hits even slowing its deliberate march.

Cursing himself, Leon ran for Bernard's linear launcher on the other side of the room. He could only watch as the Birkin creature waved its hand casually, the tentacles pulling Harper apart and into the soft earth. Claire grabbed for his hand, but more tentacles snatched at her, pulling her against a wall. One strip of flesh wrapped around her neck, and she could feel the air being forced out. She struggled vainly against the vines' grip, feeling the strength fade from her exhausted limbs. Was this the end?

Just when she was about to lose consciousness, she heard the sound she'd only heard once before, back on Rockfort Island. In the same moment, the grip began to loosen, and she could breath again. Had Sherry had a change of heart like in South America? Opening her eyes, she could see that wasn't the case.

Leon had the launcher propped on his shoulder, its long barrel smoking. The Birkin creature's lower body had been all but vaporized, and the tentacles and spikes were turning to dust, cut off from their host. The crows that had been circling overhead fell to the earth, dozens of black-feathered bodies covering the rubble. Claire fell forward, gasping for breath, her eyes never leaving the dying creature. It turned its eyes on Claire, and she was startled to see them so sad. Crawling towards her, the creature made no sign of pain other than its ragged breaths.

"Claire…" it wailed weakly. "Claire…"

She recognized the voice. It had guided her through the dark tunnels of the city's sewers, making an otherwise foolhardy journey worthwhile. It was her friend. It was Sherry.

"Sherry," she said gently. "It's okay, honey…it's okay. Just rest now."

"I…can't. Why can't I," she cried weakly. "I'm so tired, Claire, so tired…"

"Why did you come here, Sherry," Leon asked, coming over to kneel beside her. "What's here that's so important?"

"I told you," she breathed raggedly. "This is where it all began…I only thought it should…end here too."

"You wanted us to…?"

"Kill me? More than anything, I just…wanted it to end. It's so lonely, so miserable…being a stranger to your own body. Like drowning for every second of your life and knowing you'd live forever," she said sadly, her voice gaining strength. She looked down at her hand, and saw Claire holding it. The girl smiled.

"What about the cure you were researching?"

"There…is no cure," she said, her face pained. "My father's virus…was too powerful. It consumed everything…even my mind. This was the only way, Leon, the only way I could…find some peace," she gasped. "Th-thank you…"

"Sherry," began Claire, her voice overcome with emotion. She shuddered, her body racked with sobs.

"There's something else," said the girl quietly. "I want you to have this, Claire. I want you to know how much…happiness it gave me to have, just to hold in my hands when I was…alone. There's not much left to it now, but I still treasured this little piece more than anything," she said, opening up her hand to reveal a shred of the familiar pink vest, a Valkyrie symbol emblazoned proudly against the sky.

"No, I gave this to you for a reason, sweetie…I want you to keep it."

"Claire…it won't do me any good where I'm going. You have to destroy me, every shred of proof that I was ever here. Please…I want you to…finish me."

Tears filled her eyes, distorting the young woman's vision and the world around her. Here she was, barely twenty-five years old, and being asked to murder a close friend to end her suffering.

"I…can't. I can't do that Sherry," she whispered, shaking her head. Feeling something against her shoulder, she turned to see Leon behind her, the linear launcher in his hand.

"Take it," he said, offering her the cannon. "There's enough in it for one more shot."

"Leon…?"

"Finish this," he pleaded. "It's what she wants."

"Go to hell Leon," Claire said coldly, turning back to face the young girl she had oftentimes pictured as a younger sister. "You and your goddamned mission."

He was silent, and when she looked at him again, she saw that familiar sadness in his eyes. She had last seen it when they had barely escaped Umbrella's goons in the woods, and he had been forced to kill. She and Sherry had tried their best to comfort him, telling him it was the right thing to do, and now…now it was his turn to do the same, and she couldn't help but lash out at him. God, what had she become?

"Claire," said the girl serenely. "Remember what you said when I last saw you? You promised you'd…take care of me. Please…do it," begged her friend. "I'm so tired, Claire. I just want to rest, to sleep knowing that I won't wake up as that—that _thing_."

Her thoughts turned to Steve, the young man who had died in her arms, the young man who had beaten the virus within him to save her at the cost of his own life. If he could beat that Veronica virus, why couldn't Sherry do the same? He had done so out of love, why couldn't she? She remembered the pain in his smile that last moment, her desire to take away that suffering, willing to even take on that burden herself.

No one should have to make this choice, she thought, taking the launcher reluctantly. The metal felt cold in her hands, despite its warmth from Leon's recent blast.

Closing her eyes tightly to blink away tears, Claire clutched the piece of her old vest in her fist as she listened wistfully to a friend who had lost all hope.

"Sherry…" she wept, the image of a young girl on the border of womanhood flickering in her eyes, a lonely young girl that might have been her had it not been for a strong, dependable brother. Chris…he would hate her for this, she thought.

She pulled the trigger.

--

Smoke rose quietly from the ruins of the Spencer estate, faint light from the predawn morning creeping over the tops of the Arklay Mountains. Two young people stood silently, their grim countenances betraying the raging sea of emotion in their hearts. A smoldering ring of fire burned between them, the ashen remains of a girl not even out of her teens blowing softly into the wind. The young woman tossed something into the small fire, a shred of cloth that soon joined the other embers, swirling into the autumn sky.

Long moments passed, neither of the two speaking or even acknowledging each other's presence. Only when the fire finally died out did one of them speak.

"You may not see it now, but it was…for the best," Leon said glumly.

He saw it coming, clear as day, but did nothing to stop it. Her fist connected squarely with his jaw, snapping his head to the side with a crack. Stumbling back, he didn't even raise a hand to defend against her follow up, a left cross that sent him to the ground. He sat there in the dirt, neither angry nor sad, a calm expression on his pale features.

"Feel better," he asked, rubbing his jaw gingerly. He hadn't been hit this hard since he last sparred with Krauser.

"I don't think I'm _ever_ going to feel better around you," she said, her eyes burning hotly.

"Claire, I know you're upset, but…can't you see why I didn't want to tell you? There are things we're better off not knowing…"

"And since when was it your place to decide who knows what?"

"I'm your friend," he said carefully. "I was only doing what I thought was best for you…and Sherry."

"Best…for us? Is _this_ what was best for us," she asked angrily, gesturing at the ruins. "She didn't deserve to die in a place like this."

"Neither did Bernard or Harper," Leon replied gravely. "But…they did what they had to, just like us. We mustn't hate ourselves for it."

Her entire torso began to burn hotly with anger, the enormity of what she had done sinking in. She had been angry in her life, no different than anyone else, but never like this. All she could think of was how to hurt Leon, how to make him feel like she did at that moment. And then it occurred to her, just how to do that.

"You know…you're right, Leon," she said quietly. "Now that I think about it, I've been nothing but a hypocrite all this time, holding out on you while being angry at you for doing the same…"

"What do you mean?"

"Your little friend, Ada…? She's alive and well," said Claire, turning to walk away.

"Wha-what? But that can't be…I saw her die…!"

"That's not everything, Leon. All these years, she's been working for Wesker."

--

His eye still bled, the soft part of the damaged area beginning to harden. Yellowish pus had begun to form along the cracks in the skin, and he worried for a moment that it might become infected. That could wait, though. His one good eye took in the exchange between Kennedy and some woman, and he debated whether he could just charge in and kill the two of them to retrieve the sample.

The sample…as the fire burned, less and less of it became viable. What would he do if he couldn't recover even a part of it? The two were arguing now, the woman punching Kennedy twice, the Boy Scout too proper to fight back or even defend himself. Whoever she was, she threw a mean cross. Krauser had sparred off and on with Kennedy, who had some decent moves, but none of the aggressiveness of a true fighter. He fought with compassion, which made him weak. On the last occasion, Krauser had nearly broken Kennedy's jaw. Watching the fool rub his jaw now, he dearly hoped Kennedy was remembering that punch.

He watched as the woman stormed off, leaving Kennedy alone to his thoughts. Just when Krauser decided to move in for the kill, the young man ran after her. Fool. Even from such a distance, Krauser could tell how much Kennedy cared for the woman. Krauser had never cared much for women, or anyone else, for that matter. He'd had impulses like other men, and in that regard he viewed women as a means to an end: utterly disposable. Women weren't lining up to be with him, and he didn't care. The strong could take what they wanted, as history had proven. There had been a few incidents in the academy, but his military potential far outweighed any sluts' claims. And so they were forgotten, his trespasses forgiven.

Krauser looked with disdain at Bernard's corpse. The gaping hole in his belly explained his end clearly enough. The man had thought himself clever, posing as a freelance commando to hide his relationship to the girl. Krauser had convinced Graham that would be an asset when the final battle came. The girl obviously had no memory of her past. Or maybe she did, and just didn't care. He grinned, breaking the drying scabs on his face. Blood dripped down his face, blending with salty sweat.

His grin vanished when he saw her remains up close. Or, more accurately, the scattered ashes of her remains. Those two must have unleashed both barrels of a linear launcher on the girl to achieve this kind of effect. He swore quietly to himself; those two had cost him an easy ticket into Wesker's organization. Weeks of careful planning and manipulation for nothing.

He kicked savagely at Bernard's corpse, the bones breaking under his boot's heel. Another kick and he felt better. What could he give Wesker now that there was nothing left of the girl but ash? Maybe there were some of her parasite things laying around. Walking through the remains, he found only dead crows crushed under his boots. Of course...the girl had implanted them with the leeches, he realized. He took one into his hands, carefully slicing its belly open with his knife. Flaky gray powder poured from the hole, blowing into the wind. Dust. Nothing but dust.

_

* * *

Note: This chapter didn't quite have the conclusion I wanted, dialogue-wise, though the plot points all ended up fitting together. I wrote it in piecemeal, between going back and forth with some other writing, and I found that to be rather therapeutic, getting the kinks out. Hardest part to write was the Sherry scene; I at first planned a huge battle with an onslaught of her puppets in an Arctic facility, but I kind of liked the idea of ending her life on the remains of the Spencer estate. It didn't quite begin there for her, per se, but with the city destroyed, there really weren't many options. Decided to make her want it to end, to simplify things and maybe give some insight to her character; she is, after all, still that sweet little girl underneath it all, being forced to do terrible things. _

_Also, I had written out that very last section of the chapter with the intention of telling it from Krauser's perspective, as he is sneaking around, trying to get a G-Virus sample from Sherry. But…decided to scrap it midway through, leaving it kind of jumbled. _

_Actually worked out the idea for this ending on the message board at Gamefaqs, where I discussed a potential sequel to RE2 with Sherry and Claire, and how it would end. The original ending I had thought of was a bit too 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' (as I was later told), with Sherry remembering everything just before Claire pulls the trigger. But even though I never really watched that show, I still thought it would be better to put a different twist on it. I left out the emotional impact of the Ada revelation for Leon, but we'll see repercussions later on._


	24. Awakenings and Aftermath

_**Awakening and Aftermath**_

Fighting out of the darkness. The gasp of her last breath, the crushing pressure from her killers' hands, the leathery smell of his gloves lingering in her nostrils. Panting heavily, she woke to darkness. Cool, filtered air ran over her skin: an air conditioning system. Where was she?

She rolled over in the bed, expecting a dingy cot, but found herself covered in luxurious satin sheets. The bed was large and soft, a gossamer canopy hung above the circular mattress. Wherever she was, they had taste to match their wealth. Pushing aside one of the sheer overhangs, she stepped away from the safe comfort of the bed, taking care to wrap one of the sleek red sheets about her body. It seemed her host had been kind enough to furnish her with every luxury save clothing.

The room was dimly lit, curtains half open to allow a generous amount of sunlight into the room, but not enough to disturb her slumber. Expensive pieces of furniture filled the room, plush velvet lined seats surrounding an ornately carved marble table. In one of these chairs sat a woman Ada had never before seen in her life. By her poise and confidence, Ada would've guessed her to be at least twenty years older than she, but by all physical appearances, the woman could easily have been her younger sister. The woman smiled.

"I'd heard of your elegance, but seeing you in just a sheet, I have to admit…the rumors simply don't do you justice," said the woman, her piercing green eyes taking in every detail of Ada's form and figure.

"Nice digs," complimented Ada, looking casually about. "Immaculate taste…any clothes to go with it?"

The woman nodded to a dresser, picking up a glass to sip at something. Ada walked carefully to the closet, still dragging the flowing covers behind her across the thick carpeting. Throwing the doors open, she saw one dress there: a long, simple red gown. She ran her hands along the seam, admiring the stitch work and embroidery. While rather simple, it was an elegant evening gown worthy of any high society debutante. Dropping the sheet casually, she stepped into the dress, pulling it up along her lithe body. It fit perfectly, every considerable curve and contour of her body tucked snugly into the silken folds of the dress. She especially enjoyed the Asian flavor of the design; whoever had made or bought it must have had her in mind.

"Marvelous, Ada," said the woman. "Simply marvelous."

After appreciating her reflection in a nearby mirror for another moment, Ada turned to face the woman, regarding her carefully.

"So you know my name, my size, and my taste in clothes…and what do I know about you?"

"Far more than you'd ever let on, I imagine…"

"I see you know how the game is played; that can only mean you are who I think you are…"

The woman arched an eyebrow, suppressing any surprise she might have had at that moment.

"Oh, and why do you say that," asked the woman. "Do you know who I am?"

"I have my suspicions," replied Ada, sitting across the woman. "But names aren't that important to me."

"And what is important to you?"

Ada leaned back in the chair, casually crossing her legs at the knee. "Why, revenge, I suppose."

The woman smiled. "We are two of a kind, my dear…cigarette," she asked, offering a long, slender cigarette from a platinum case.

"Those things'll kill you," she replied, shaking her head.

"Even you?"

"Before today, I would've thought so, but now…" shrugged Ada, taking the offered cigarette and putting it to her lips.

"My doctors pulled off quite the miracle reviving you," said the woman. "Even for them."

Ada took a long drag from the cigarette, blowing out a perfect smoke ring before studying the woman across the table.

"And how long did this miracle take, exactly?"

"About four days," replied the woman. "You've been recovering for another five."

"Nine days, huh?

"Give or take a few. We had you taken off the IV this morning, so you must be quite famished." She raised her hand slightly, and the large black doors behind her swung open for a tall, hawkish man pushing a cart into the room. He set plates of steaming food before Ada before refreshing the other woman's drink and politely bowing out of the room.

Ada watched the man exit, a strange expression coming over her face as she looked at the food.

"No offense to the chef…the food looks delicious, but something in me just wants to vomit when I look at it," said Ada, rubbing her stomach gingerly. "Must be withdrawal…"

"Yes, it was rather disconcerting to find such a wide…catalog of drugs in you, dear," said the woman, her intent eyes never leaving Ada. "Is that how Wesker hooked you into his crooked little organization?"

Ada regarded the woman suspiciously, but hid her wariness a moment later. "In a way. He told me it was a serum to keep me alive, all the while pumping me full of god knows what."

"So Daniel was telling the truth…you two had a falling out?"

"Daniel?"

"Some love struck puppy that inadvertently brought your body to one of our…operatives in Wesker's organization. After Daniel was…disposed of, my agent brought you here to be treated."

"Oh, you mean Danny-Boy…? You killed him? Was that really necessary?"

"All I know is that he disappeared after the revelation. From what I've heard, though, you're lucky he came to us first. It seems he was quite taken with you…"

"All the crazy ones are," said Ada, fighting to keep her eyes from the food. The woman took notice of this, and another gesture summoned the same man, who removed the food as quickly as he had set it. Before leaving, he set a small cup before Ada, containing a rainbow array of drugs and vitamins.

"Eat up, dear," said the woman. "Even if your appetite is lost, you still need your daily nutrients."

Ada gulped down the meds with a glass of water, wondering what she was getting into. So far, this woman seemed genuine and decent, a far cry from any of her conversations with Wesker. But there was something in the way this woman looked at her…it was a look she'd seen often in men, but rarely in women. It wasn't anything as simple as lust or desire; it was more akin to the way two heavyweights sized each other up before the bell rang.

"So why'd you bring me back," asked Ada, deciding to cut to the chase. She hoped the sudden shift in conversation might throw off the woman's thought process.

"Why, revenge, I suppose," the woman echoed back to Ada. "Is there anything of greater value in this world?"

"I'd think you would know," said Ada, looking around the posh décor before settling her dark eyes back on the woman. "But I must ask…how does keeping _me_ alive gain _you_ revenge?"

"Tell me, Ada…what would it take for you to work for us, of your own free will?"

"I'm damaged goods, sister. What good am I to you?"

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, no? You would be a valuable asset to my…company, Ada. And we would give you anything you wanted, anything in the world, if you were…of use to us. We can make you beautiful forever, like me, we can provide the best medical care to your family or loved ones, we can even—"

"You can find a way for me to kill Albert Wesker," cut in Ada, her eyes narrowing.

"That would be…agreeable," replied the woman, a cold smile spreading across her porcelain features.

--

"Those are very fair terms," he insisted. "Very agreeable, I would say."

"I don't think so," countered the young man sitting in the chair. "From where I stand, I can just as easily walk away from all of this."

"And then what, Leon? What would your life be then? What would you do with yourself, be a security guard at the local mall? With the collapse of the O.R.E., you're without merit or standing."

"All the more reason for me _not_ to help you…"

"And your unsanctioned investigation into the chopper crash? Do you leave that unfinished as well?"

"From what your people are telling me, there's nothing to find there anyways, right?"

Graham thought over the words, realizing Leon had more going on upstairs than he had thought. Backed into a corner, facing prison time, and he was forcing the President to either admit secrets or lose his footing. Graham, however, didn't take the bait.

"So you've no qualms with the…prospect of jail time? I can't imagine what your daily grind will be like once the other inmates find out you used to be a police officer…"

"I'll do 6 months, tops. Probably be out on good behavior in time for the St. Paddy's Day parade."

"Good behavior? In federal prison? I don't think so, son."

"Face it, Graham. You have nothing on me anymore," said Leon smugly. "Give this little mission of yours to one of your sycophantic yes-men," he said, rising from the chair to leave. "I'm done with the O.R.E., and I'm done with you."

The anger was building up inside him, steaming to a head, but he controlled it, bottling it like his therapist had taught him. Leon's lack of respect was to be expected, after all. But he still didn't have to like it.

"And you think I'm just going to allow that to happen with my new position," seethed Graham. "I can lock you in a deep, dark hole and have the only key launched into space with a single phone call, boy."

Leon didn't respond immediately to the warning, keeping his back to the President. "So the threat comes at last, huh? I was wondering how long it'd take…"

"Even with the Executive Powers Act being held up in Congress, I can still stash you in a federal penitentiary until your bones turn brittle and your short and curlies turn gray, all before you even _hear_ the word 'lawyer'. And at what cost to me? Nothing. Meanwhile, you have everything to lose…or gain," Graham said, leaning into his chair. "But know this: the moment you walk out that door, you become an enemy of mine, and thusly, an enemy of the state. And all you'd have to sustain you on those cold, lonely nights in an eight by eight concrete cell would be your silly pride."

"This sounds more important than you first let on, Mr. President," said Leon casually. "Almost…personal."

"When one reaches a position of authority, _everything_ becomes personal, Mr. Kennedy. But I'm feeling generous, so I will allow you to…name your conditions."

Leon looked over the man, the little man that had first brought him into this world of betrayal, of lies and deceit. The man that had guided him down so many wrong paths, so many bad turns. In his mind, Leon had told himself that those terrible things were unavoidable roadblocks on his destined path. Barely half a dozen years ago, this small man had sat in a similar chair, in a weaker position, telling him what he must do. And now the most powerful man in the world, he was allowing Leon to name his own terms. It was a strange cycle.

"Alright…first, I want full administrative freedom in the investigation of Delta team's chopper crash, and the subsequent deaths of Captain Krauser and Lieutenant Olivera's entire fire team."

"That can be arranged. I'll have everything set up when you return—"

"That's not all. I want a full Presidential pardon for my unsanctioned and…illegal investigation into that same incident, and I want any connection between me and the O.R.E. to be erased. Permanently."

"I suppose that won't be difficult for me to do. Is that all?"

"No, there is one more thing," said Leon carefully, taking in a deep breath. "I want everything you have on an Albert Wesker."

"Hmm, name doesn't ring a bell," Graham said unflinchingly. "Who is he?"

"No one you should have to concern yourself with," replied Leon. "Is that a deal?"

"Of course, of course," nodded Graham agreeably.

"So then, what's this top secret mission of yours?"

"I'm sending you to Europe…"

"Sounds more like a vacation."

"Not quite. It's my daughter, Ashley," Graham said, his eyes glistening. "She's been kidnapped; I want you to find her."

--

Later, when he was gone, Graham's trusted aide appeared from a hidden side entrance in his trademark fashion. His gaunt features were paler than usual, bandages and splints adorning his thin body.

"That boy…he knows about Wesker. How?"

"He has connections to S.T.A.R.S., so it's no surprise. In fact, I'm surprised that he took this long to ask such questions…"

"It wouldn't be wise to underestimate him…"

"I wouldn't send a fool to find my daughter."

"And the timing…surely this is no coincidence?"

"Perhaps, but it's not important to us. If he and his renegade friends want to take down Wesker, I'll be more than happy to assist them."

"What about this supposed opposition from the Salon conglomerate? They'll probably be sending in their own agents."

"I know," said Graham, picking up a folder. "I'm actually counting on them doing so…"

"You speak as if you had someone in mind…"

"Hopefully someone who can help cleanse me from this whole sordid affair…"

"What do you mean?"

"Ada Wong," replied Graham, tossing the folder to his assistant. "Her and Kennedy have…history. Salon thinks they're clever enough to use her to get to Wesker, but he's probably on to them. Just as we are. But more importantly, Leon knows nothing of her role. Him discovering her alive, seemingly working with Wesker…"

"She's quite beautiful," said Monten, glancing at the photo. "You certain he will kill her?"

"If he doesn't, she will surely kill him to keep her cover."

"But what about Ashley…isn't he the one rescuing her? What if this Ada woman gets him first?"

"He _will_ kill that woman, of this much I am certain. His duty is all that drives him. Why, he helped eliminate a young girl he once called his friend in the name of this office. No doubt he'll do the same here. According to these psych files, the guilt that remains from his role in the Birkin mission will only make him protect Ashley that much more…arduously."

"But counting so much on one person…is secrecy _that_ important?"

"It is. If the world finds out my daughter was kidnapped, attempts would only increase, worsen. I would be exposed, weakened. I cannot allow that to happen…not now, not ever," he said, shaking his head. "But just to be safe, I want our very best men ready to back him up."

"Wesley has already begun spinning a story for the media outlets, sir, about her studying abroad. He was an excellent choice for your Press Secretary…"

"Wesley is a good man, and even better at his job. We can trust him."

"Can we say the same for Leon Kennedy? He knows so much and doesn't seem to be a…supporter of yours."

"He already knows too much, but he has no idea what to do with what he knows…"

"And our suspicions regarding the crash? Are you certain you want him digging through that mess with what he might find?"

"If my suspicions are correct, his worst fears shall be confirmed in Europe."

"…You think Krauser is working for Pharmaceutical Salon as well?"

"No, I don't. We know he was the one who kidnapped Ashley, but she has no real value to them; even corporations such as they are above such petty personal blackmail. No…there is another player involved here. Someone staying close to the shadows, manipulating Krauser."

"Probably Wesker…or a possible third party."

"I'm not sure, but that's what Leon is going to find out, whether he wants to or not."

"But…he knows nothing of all this. How can you be certain he will pursue it?"

"You ever fish, Monten," asked Graham suddenly, his eyes looking past his assistant.

"…Once, sir, but I never got the hang of it."

"A good fisherman uses the best bait money can buy to catch the hungry fish. A _true_ fisherman, however, knows that it is _how_ the bait is presented that will determine if he goes hungry that night."

"I see…and Ashley? Using her as…bait this way doesn't bother you?"

Graham inhaled slowly, an empty look coming into his eyes.

"I love my daughter more than anything in this world, old friend. But I have no choice at this point but to make the most of what there is," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Throughout history, men of importance have had to set aside their own emotional attachments for the good of the many. This…burden is no different than the one we ask American citizens to bear everyday, to send their loved ones off to war, to fight for the lost causes of old, heartless men," he said tiredly. "Still, if only I'd known…how short our time was…"

"She will be fine, sir. Leon Kennedy has never once failed a mission."

Nodding once, Graham turned away to the windows, his watery eyes focusing on the sprawling green of the White House lawn. He had passed it everyday on his way to work, envying the immaculate view of Pennsylvania Avenue. But now, watching from the other side of the fence, he could find no beauty in it.

"Everything must end, sooner or later," he whispered.

--

The purple liquid in the vial shifted slightly in the light, reflecting the shaded eyes studying it. It disappeared into the man's gloved hand, the motion quick and decisive.

"This is quite a find, Ada," said Wesker, clutching the vial. "But why bring it to me?"

"No one else in the world would…appreciate that like you would, I thought."

"And since when did my appreciation for…such things matter to you?"

"When you said what you did, about my…inability to perform certain tasks, it…annoyed me. Proving you wrong has always been a…hobby of mine. Wouldn't you agree?"

Wesker laughed, his spirits high from to her precious delivery.

"So you wish to prove your…value to me? That I was…underestimating you all this time?"

"I'm sitting here, and rather healthy at that, aren't I? Despite your…best efforts?"

"An interesting outlook on…previous events, I must admit. And not entirely untrue," he nodded solemnly. "What is it you want in exchange?"

"What any employee wants…"

"A raise?"

"A promotion."

He stroked his chin, watching her carefully. "And why is it I should trust you, in light of your recent…transgressions?"

"You're holding it in your hand."

"No matter the value of this vaccine, it isn't enough to buy my trust, Ada. You of all people should know that."

"Then I suppose I'll just have to take it to one of your competitors," she said, rising from her chair and extending her hand. "Maybe Pharmaceutical S—?"

"And what makes you think I would simply give this back to you once I had it in my hands," he asked, holding the vial back with a smirk. "My men disarmed you quite a ways back…"

"We've all learned valuable lessons in the past few weeks, wouldn't you say, Wesker?"

"Some more than others, but I don't see—"

With a subtle twist of her wrist, Ada's slim wristwatch opened to reveal a nozzle, spraying a thin mist into Wesker's face. Choking on the poison, he was helpless as Ada vaulted over the desk, kicking him squarely in the chest. As he fell, he twisted to his side, landing in time to see the barrel of a large handgun leveled at his forehead, the same handgun he kept hidden under his desk's central panel. But no one else should have known about that gun…

"Admit it," she cooed seductively. "You missed me."

"Welcome home, Ada," said Wesker.

END

* * *

_Note: If you're wondering what the hell Pharmaceutical Salon is, it's the company Ada mentions in her RE4 mini game (PS2 version only, sadly), "Pharm S". I took the liberty of naming it "Salon"; sounded foreign, which was the basis for the idea. I was imagining a French/Canadian company forcing their way into the market post-Umbrella, focusing mostly on cosmetics and related research (which explains the head of the company, who's so old yet looks so young). _

_One piece that I regretfully wasn't able to include was the conclusion of the jungle facility. I had meant to have Sherry nearly kill Ada and Claire, but in a moment of weakness, let them go. Or something along those lines; the main point being Sherry can't remember Claire. I guess we'll just have to assume Ada destroyed the Nyx with that bomb and they made it out without further incident. Also, if you're wondering why Ada didn't just kill Wesker in their reunion, well…she wants to shaft him first, of course. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all. _

_One thing that I really liked about this "ending" is how Graham partly vindicates himself. Earlier on, we think he's this hypocrite who tells people to do one thing while doing another, but at the end, we see him taking his own advice. He makes the best of the situation, no matter how terrible it is (sort of what he tells a younger Leon). I hope this elicits a little bit of sympathy for the poor guy. _

_**This is the "end", but look forward to an epilogue to tie together any final bits that will be coming rather soon.**_


	25. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

The cabin was dark, eerily illuminated by the sole light from the rear of the 767's red eye flight. An ocean roared below, the howling winds whistling across the plane's surface. He knew he was safe, protected by layers and layers of steel, but he had never grown fond of flying.

That was far back in his mind now though, another file folder open before him, the contents spread across the table. He had been given his own section to study the confidential mission information with privacy. Leon had nonchalantly set the mission documents aside, instead focusing on the other binder, full of data on one Albert Wesker. Not nearly full enough, however. The man was an enigma, his history shrouded in mystery. But his deeds spoke plainly enough. The man was slime, a killer and manipulator with greed and power as his only ambitions, yet he remained wholly unpredictable. Could Ada really be working for this man? And why hadn't she tried to contact him in all these years? Hadn't she said she cared for him?

The nagging worry came back to him, that she had only said those things under extreme emotional duress. After all, how hard was it to tell someone you loved them when there was no fear of consequence? He had tossed and turned in an empty bed for many a night because of that worry, struggling to remember her every word, her every movement. It felt real, of that much he was certain, and no one had ever said such things to him. He had cared for her, and she for him. Or had she? Was Annette telling the truth after all, that Ada was only after the virus the whole time? All these years, he believed her death had vindicated her lies, validated her feelings. But now, with her alive, and working for this kind of monster…

"Would you like anything, sir," asked the stewardess, interrupting his thoughts. Leon hurriedly covered the documents, smiling faintly at the woman. He saw the glint in her eye, the spark of interest he saw so often in the young women he met. But while she was attractive, now was not the time. It was never the time, he sighed.

"No, I'm okay," he said, returning to his work. "Thank you."

Disappointed, she turned away. Apparently she wasn't used to being rebuffed. Leon barely noticed, however, his thoughts returning to the mission at hand. And somewhere not far behind, he thought of _her_ again, just as he knew he would.

--

Three days later.

His communicator buzzed, as he was expecting, but later than his calculations. Perhaps a celebration had interfered with the projected timetable. But it mattered little, as Wesker knew exactly who it was.

"Salutations, Mr. President," he greeted.

"Wesker…so you knew it was me, eh, you bastard? Then you know, also, that Ashley is safe and on her way home."

"What excellent news, Davis. It warms my heart to hear such wonderful things; is there nothing sweeter than a reunion of loved ones?"

Graham regarded Wesker suspiciously, wondering exactly what was going on. Wesker was the last person on the planet he expected to be happy about his daughter's safe return.

"You know what this means, don't you, Wesker? We're done. You missed your chance at me. You hear me, you son of a bitch? We're through, you cold-blooded little shit!"

"Such accusations wound me, old friend…to think after all we've been through, for you to still suspect that I had a part in Ashley's abduction…it tears at my very heart."

"Spare me your bullshit and lies, Albert. I'll forgive this one trespass, in light of your recent…assistance. So for now, we are neither friend, nor enemy. But stand against me again and you'll have all my considerable power at your doorstep. And know that very same power is going to be constantly watching my family…and you."

"Such a frightening thought, Davis, I assure you. But after my restful vacation, I am rather…weary of your…theatrics. And so I'll respond to your warning with a warning of my own: _don't ever threaten me_," hissed Wesker, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Remember who had the power to put you into place; imagine that same power turned against you. Skeletons do have a way of emerging from the closet, after all, especially for those in public office…"

"You may think your network can stand against mine, Wesker, but then again, you've always been a damned fool. You thought you could pull my strings all this time, but they've been cut, you bastard. My media machine is more than capable of standing up to yours. Can you say the same about your standing army?"

"Excessive brute force? How very like an American President. But your tirades are beginning to bore me. We can make threats to each other all day and all night, to no avail. Surely an important…man such as yourself must have more important things to do. Like hugging your daughter Ashley. Or promoting Leon Kennedy…"

"…So you _were_ watching, weren't you?"

"Of course. He's just so much better at the theatrics than you, Davis. And you know I'm never one to miss a good show…"

"You bastard."

"Now, now Davis. If it's any consolation, I have that Las Plagas sample you desired coming my way too. Oh, I'm sorry. That wouldn't make you feel better at all, now would it? I can be such an insensitive fool at times…"

"You may think you're one step closer than I to resurrecting Umbrella, but I have a trillion dollar budget on my side, and the confidence of the American people."

"For now," said Wesker with a mocking sigh. "But I can't shake the feeling that quite a few members of the House just might surprise you and vote against your Free Pharmaceutical bill. Why, rumor even has it that this…holdup of the Executive Power Act renewal might be permanent. I wonder, how powerful is a puppet once his strings are cut…?"

"You haven't heard the last of me, Wesker. I swear you'll come to regret this…"

"More threats? Very well. I'm ending this conversation. Farewell, Davis…"

"This isn't over Wesker! You hear me? This isn't the end!"

"Foolish old man…haven't you realized it yet," asked Wesker mockingly, leaning forward as he reached for the power switch. "Nothing ever ends."

--

The room was darker than the others in the facility, strange even for one who fancied himself one of the shadows. Despite that fondness, he had always appreciated light in all its brilliant forms. For wasn't it light that symbolized enlightenment? His previous life had been wasted fumbling through the darkness, clueless as to the ways of the world. Only with his death came true enlightenment, a brief glance into the greatest mystery of mankind.

And so he had insisted on at least one dim light in the capsule. For this was his masterpiece; the project that would tilt the balance forever in his favor. The capsule stood eight feet tall, the metal cylinder sleek and reinforced. The only light came from the small rectangular window in the capsule's front, the soft glow faint in the dim darkness of the hidden chamber. No other person knew of this secret room, and he never wanted that to change. This was his crowning achievement, and no one else's.

He stood in front of the tube as he did on so many other sleepless nights, his arms behind him as he stared at the only person in the world he trusted to listen. Secrets were like a disease; the more you held onto them, the longer they ate away at your insides. Wesker had always been good at keeping secrets, even better at finding them, and the best when it came to using them to his advantage.

But for all his power and abilities, he was still human. At least partly. No matter how badly he wished to cast aside his still-human part, he knew it was that which separated him from the mindless bio-weapons out there. And now, with Ada bringing him a workable sample of Las Plagas, he could unlock the key to controlling them. The puppet master was about to get his strings…

She would have to die, of course. There were few people in the world he trusted less, despite her usefulness at times. She still had the sample, though, and would probably keep that ace up her sleeve while slipping him a fake. It mattered little, though, he thought, pressing his hand against the capsule's window, feeling its warmth. Peering in, he looked upon his own hidden ace, the small occupant floating in bubbling liquid. Wesker caressed the glass gently, a sort of parental pride filling his chest. As if sensing his presence, the subject's eyes snapped opened, imprinting once again on the pale man's face. There was definite recognition this time. Excellent, thought Wesker, glancing over at the brainwave activity monitor.

"Awake again I see," said Wesker, removing dark sunglasses to better gaze upon his masterpiece. "It's just me…"

"Fa-ther…?" stuttered the creature, a creature only a handful of people in the world would have recognized as having once been Steve Burnside.

"Yes," Wesker said with a gentle smile, his golden eyes shimmering. "Your father…"

* * *

_Final Notes: So there you have it, the complete work finally finished. And under 100,000 words, at that. Hoped you enjoyed the reading as much as I did the writing. My original goal was to connect all the RE games (the good ones at least) into one story with several arcs, and I think in that regard I was successful. Now whether or not you found those side stories entertaining…well, that's a whole other matter I guess. _

_Usually when I write something with a clear conclusion, I have the ending already planned out in my head. For this fanfic, I had originally planned to end it with Sherry's death, wrapping up the loose ends of RE2, which I considered to be the basis of this story (as Ada is the focal point character). But somehow it just kept growing, nearly out of control, and character after character kept appearing. At one point I even considered changing the title to simply "Aftermath", but with a bit of restructuring, I was able to shift the focus back to everyone's favorite spy._

_A few things I was regretfully unable to include: _

_-The death of Rebecca Chambers. As my least favorite RE character, she was going to die a stomach-wrenching death unlike anything you've ever seen before, preceded by a gratuitous torture sequence. But I preferred the idea of her dying as a result of someone betraying them; it was her naïve nature that bothered me the most about her._

_-More Jill Valentine. As my favorite main character, I was hoping to give her more face time. In fact, I had a side story segment set for her, Barry, and Carlos, post-RE3 trying to escape Graham's O.R.E. facility. There would've been a lot of jokes about Barry's abilities (or lack thereof), and Carlos was going to get heroically left behind so the others could escape. But…I figured Jill gets enough time in the games, so it was only fair she take a backseat to the always awesome Ada. _

_-More internal monologue from Sherry. Sherry really felt secondary in this story, a cardboard cut out without substance. I guess that was a result of me splitting her into two personalities, to explain her ruthlessness while still making her sympathetic. So…sorry Sherry, we barely knew ye, and that's my fault. Oh well, that's what you get for being so damn slow in RE2. _

_-Steve Burnside's eventual appearance. I had intended to hint at his role in Wesker's plan throughout the story, but it always felt forced, never quite right. Plus, I think this way, it makes the revelation stronger. I had also entertained the idea of having Steve's first word be "Claire", but that's too cheesy, even for me. I love the idea of a Wesker/Ada/Steve dynamic, just this totally dysfunctional family. Who knows, maybe I'll pursue that angle someday. The implication of Steve's awakening is to parallel Ada's. Meaning, this story's circle is going to repeat again (just in case that wasn't clear). As to whom would have killed Steve, I guess it'd have to be either Claire or Chris…_

_-Ada's return to Wesker. Originally, I had planned to have her settle back into her routine a bit too easily, which makes her question if this is really her place after all. And in turn, she would become more conflicted, wondering if she should betray Salon or Wesker's group. She'd only grow to hate herself more, with revenge becoming her only desire, yada yada. I decided not to, if only to keep her mystery going; there's only so much we should get to see into her lovely little head. Besides, it wouldn't be consistent with what we see in RE4. And in case you didn't catch it, the sample Ada is bringing Wesker is a fake, and he knows it. He's probably onto all of her plans._

_-Claire and Sherry's reunion. The jungle facility kind of got butchered at the end there, the most significant absence being Sherry and Claire coming face to face since parting ways in the RC woods. Nonetheless, a writer has to know when to abandon a plotline, and I decided the jungle arc was getting to be a burden to write, much less read. Guess you'll have to fill in the holes yourselves, dear readers, because as far as I'm concerned, that arc ended with Ada killing the Nyx. _

_-Umbrella's Resurrection. This was the one piece I wanted to include the most, but knew I couldn't (time frame issues). The idea of Graham and Wesker racing to recreate the company for completely different agendas appealed to me, but it wasn't as important as the battle between the two men. My favorite bits to write were the dialogues between those two, just this constant pissing match. As to which one wins the race, well…that's up to you to decide. One detail I had wanted to use was the resurrection of Umbrella taking place seven years later, meaning Umbrella would've been brought back one year after RE4. Seven is such a recurring number throughout history and fiction. _

_So there you have my "deleted scenes", stuff that got lost on the editing room floor, so to speak. I kind of rambled on a bit more here than usual, but if you've stuck around this long, I imagine a few more words won't turn you away. This is probably the longest 'short' story I've ever written, and while it was tough to stick out at times, I'm glad I kept at it. Having said that, I sincerely want to thank you for finding an interest in something I wrote. Hope you enjoyed it. And if you didn't, I'll try to make the next one better. _


End file.
